


How Easy It Could Be

by maxbegone



Series: Sweet Caffeine [1]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Art, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, Slow Burn, there might be coffee but there is also wine., this thing took me months to write enjoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:48:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 57,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27650903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxbegone/pseuds/maxbegone
Summary: “Hey,” he offers David a smile. “Same as yesterday?”He gets a pressed smile in return, like he wasn’t expecting Patrick to remember him. “Yeah, it’s—”“Caramel macchiato, skim, two sweeteners and a sprinkle of cocoa powder,” Patrick recites as he makes his way behind the counter. He picks up a paper cup. “It’s not that complicated.”David gives him an unamused look. “My accommodations don’t have a coffee maker,” he offers. “Or an espresso machine. Just a plug-in kettle.”Patrick gives a low whistle as he preps an espresso shot. “Must be rough.”--A story about sweet caffeine, starting new, and falling in love slowly.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer & Rachel, Patrick Brewer & Stevie Budd, Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Stevie Budd & David Rose
Series: Sweet Caffeine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2045125
Comments: 70
Kudos: 321





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> _Ooof_ did this take months to write! I've been teasing this over on tumblr for several months now, but since August this has been my baby. What was originally set out to be a one shot turned into a two-parter.
> 
> A very, _very_ special shout out to Rachel [(@fishyspots)](fishyspots.tumblr.com) for letting me throw bits at pieces at her throughout the whole process and then agreeing to beta. I'm forever grateful, my friend, thank you, thank you.
> 
> I hope you enjoy part one as much as I enjoyed writing it (and grueling over it)!

Mornings like this are what makes Patrick so happy he decided to open this place. Cool, crisp spring air as the sun rises over the trees and casts its light on the sleepy town of Mistmill Sound. He’s up before the rest of its residents, awake with the fisherman, Barry and June at the diner, and Twyla at the bakery as well as any other shop owners who keep early hours. 

He grew up here, surrounded by these people, and he knows them well. He knows their orders, their quirks, their indifferences. Patrick knows this town like the back of his hand, and once upon a time it felt a bit like a burden. Too small, too condensed, too safe. Patrick needed to stretch his legs and see what else was out there for him. 

His mother worked in HR for fifteen years before deciding that enough was enough; Patrick turned four and she walked away from her career to raise him. When he was old enough to be on his own after school — and after he was given many lectures about not touching the stove without supervision — she began working at Weston’s Florals in town. It suits her, Marcy Brewer, to be surrounded by the sweetness of flowers, always coming home with new bouquets to set on the windowsill in their kitchen and dropping them off for Patrick to display.

His father, a retired financial analyst who cannot sit still for more than a moment, jumped right back into it after a year of attempting to just be present. He works freelance mostly, spending any and all downtime fixing things around the house that “definitely don’t need fixing, Clint Brewer!” And two years ago, he took up a coaching position for the middle school’s baseball team. 

Patrick firmly believes this is where his parents were always meant to be. Not Mistmill, per se, but doing things day-by-day with little to no deadline, helping others and making their neighbors smile, making each other smile. 

He knows where he gets it from, both that and his work ethic. A business major himself, Patrick only lasted a few years in Toronto with a company that absolutely drained him before returning home. It felt like he worked all hours of the night. And sometimes, he still does, perfecting every last detail on an assignment. 

Back then, he was with Rachel, long before he came out to his friends and family. They were talking about getting engaged before they broke up, before he kissed Ken, the IT guy from a flow below on a night out with his team. Before he and Ken messed around briefly but broke it off because it just wasn’t right. Before Patrick met up with a few other guys just to see who else was out there.

Before Patrick Brewer realized how right he felt being with men, kissing men. Before he knew what he had slowly begun to suspect over the years — he was gay.

He is, has, and always will be. It’s just who he is and he’s happier because of it.

Rachel was the very first person he told (aside from himself in the mirror). Patrick called her up one morning and asked her to meet him for lunch where, through a tight throat and somewhat teary eyes he said, “I’m gay,” for the first time out loud to another person. Something like relief washed over him, and all he could do was smile as Rachel made him stand up and hug her.

“I’m proud of you,” she had whispered, and when Patrick asked if she was mad, Rachel hit him in the arm and said, firmly, “I could never be mad knowing that you’re happy. You’re still my friend, Patrick, and I love you. Nothing will change that.”

Patrick slowly realized afterward that his happiness needed to be important, so he packed up his things, broke his lease on his apartment and moved back home. He stayed with his parents for a while before the old deli on the cobblestone path overlooking the sound went up for sale and Patrick bought the space; a white brick storefront with big windows and floors that desperately needed retiling, and it helped that there was a living space above, too. 

He got to work replacing the old counter with something more spacious, installed a pastry case and a fridge up front, painted the short walls a rich navy blue and lined them with cushioned benches, and repainted the long walls a clean white. Matching wood tables and chairs with iron accents were found, shelves of similar thick cuts of wood were mounted with wrought-iron bars, and plants were thrown into the mix.

Patrick replaced the old linoleum tile with small hexagonal pieces in white with black accents. He hung cast-iron lights throughout the café, did extensive research into local roasters, and soon it was all coming together.

Patrick made it into what it is now, a place to welcome the community: The Mistmill Brew, a coffee house.

It is very much not a pub or a bar; he’s gotten that question quite enough. And he couldn’t call it a roastery, anyway, there wasn’t enough space to do any of that here. 

He unlocks the door, its old frame rattling and creaking as he pushes it open and flicks the lights on with a contented smile. Patrick locks the door behind him, sets his ledger down on the counter and begins pulling the chairs from where they’re stacked upside-down on the tables.

The clock above the kitchen entrance reads a quarter to seven; they open in fifteen minutes but people don’t usually start trickling in until eight, at the latest. Twyla will be by soon with the day’s order of baked goods, so he gets to work on cleaning the pastry case, setting up the cold brew, and brewing fresh coffee. 

He’s just tapping the small frothing pitcher on the counter and pouring it into the cup when Twyla walks in with two large boxes stacked in her arms.

“Good morning!” Her voice rings out in the empty shop cheerily, and Patrick smiles as she sets them down. “I doubled up on the apricot tarts today, I hope you don’t mind. George made extra.”

“That’s perfect, Twyla, thank you.” Patrick pops a lid on the paper cup and passes it over to her. “One almond milk cappuccino with cinnamon for you, and an Americano for George.” 

Twyla beams, “Thank you, Patrick.” She hums into a sip. “One of these days you’re seriously going to have to let me pay for all the coffee you give me.”

“With the price you give me for these?” He nods toward the boxes. “Absolutely not. The discount is more than enough.” 

She sighs, knowing not to protest. “Still. Let me know if you want anything different for tomorrow’s order. I’m testing out a batch of doughnuts with a blueberry hibiscus glaze today, so I’ll be sure to add a few for you to try!” 

“I look forward to it, Twyla, thank you.” He waves to her as she exits, her two coffees in hand, and gets to work lining the pastries in the display. 

The first two hours go by normally with the usual orders and flow of customers. Patrick falls into a trance, filling cups, conversing with neighbors and old classmates, humming along to the music even as the frothing spout whizzes piercingly. He’s chatting with a customer when Stevie breezes in a little after nine, eyes wide as she speeds around the counter. 

She tosses her bag into the back room and greets Patrick. “Who’s up?” She asks as she ties an apron around her waist. 

“Mrs. Anderson’s waiting on a Red Eye,” he gestures toward the old woman sitting with a book on the far right. “Bring it to her when it’s ready?” 

“Got it,” Stevie nods and gets to work on the drink. 

Around ten, when the rush has died down, Patrick taps her on the shoulder. “I’m going to do some inventory real quick. You’re good up here?”

She gives him a look. “Patrick, you and I have been manning this place for two years. Even without you, it runs like a well-oiled machine.” She shoves his shoulder. “Go.” 

Patrick only shakes his head in response, turning to walk in the back. Stevie’s a great and quick-witted person who he’s known for a long, long time. She’s seemingly rooted to this town, though, never having gone to a city bigger than Montreal. There are nights where the two of them will lock up and sit by the water with a bottle of wine between them and talk about all the shit that’s irking them, big or small. 

Stevie was the perfect choice to come aboard two years ago.

Patrick pulls the clipboard off the small table and gets to work. Every roast they carry is either local or fair-trade; light or dark, notes of caramel or cacao or malt. He enjoys the simplicity of ticking a checkmark on the side of the page, a rhythm of what comes next. To-go cups are accounted for, as are lids, and there are enough paper filters to last the next week, so Patrick doesn’t bother with those. 

He’s sending in the orders on his laptop when Stevie pokes her head in with a knock. “Your mom’s here,” she announces.

When he walks back out, his mother is standing there with a winning smile, a bundle of flowers, and a paper shopping bag.

“Hi, honey!”

“Hi, Mom,” Patrick greets with a kiss to her cheek. “What’s all this?”

“Flowers,” she states obviously, then lifts the brown bag. “And some leftovers, in case you and Stevie wanted something for lunch.”

“You know that’s not necessary.” Patrick takes the flowers and sets them in a vase, already filled with water and presumably done by Stevie.

“Patrick, you’re always working,” his mother says as he gets to work on her Earl Grey. “Sometimes I just worry.”

“I for one am grateful that you’re always stopping by with food, Mrs. Brewer, so thank you very much.” Stevie reaches to take the bag from her, shooting Patrick a wide-eyed and excited look. 

“Stevie Budd, I have known you for years and have told you too many times to count — please call me Marcy.” 

Stevie makes a slightly pained noise in response. “I know, I know.” 

Patrick knows she won’t change her ways. The familiarity of the conversation brings him some comfort and warms his heart. He passes the cup to his mother. 

“You’re still coming over for dinner tonight?” She asks, taking the cup from Patrick. “I’m making pork chops.”

“I’ll come over after closing,” Patrick promises, stepping behind the pastry case. He slides it open and puts two blueberry scones in a bag. “For you and Gloria,” he says, handing it over to his mother. “Tell her I said hello.” 

She leaves with a wave, and Stevie ducks into the back to put the food away. “It’s pot roast!” She yells, and Patrick snorts.

**

“Hey, I wanted to run something by you,” Patrick says to Stevie over lunch later that afternoon.

the café’s usually dead at this hour, so they’re able to relish in the quiet of sitting in the back room.

“I think it might be a good idea to hold an open mic.” 

“Yeah?” Stevie asks with her fork halfway raised to her mouth. “We need to get permits for that.”

“I know.” He stabs at a carrot. “We’d have to apply for them anyway, and maybe get a liquor license.” 

“A liquor license?” She furrows her brows. “What for?”

“I figured we could serve wine or something. It’ll take place after hours, probably, so I don’t think it would be a terrible option.”

Stevie cocks her head to the side. “Yeah, booze will have to do,” she agrees. “What brought on this idea?”

“I figured it’s about time we started opening the doors up to more events,” Patrick says with a shrug, “It was initially one of my ideas when I first bought this place, but I got so caught up in making sure we lasted past the first year that it kind of got away from me.”

“We’re well into the second year, and you’ve barely had a social life since, so sure. Let’s bring in more people and make you busier.”

Patrick gives her a look. “I take offense to that.”

“You should.” 

“We have been busy, though.”

“Yeah, and on your days off you’re usually still somehow working,” Stevie replies flatly.

Patrick sighs because, well, she’s actually completely right. He’s had a terrible work-life balance since he was in college, and if he hadn’t implemented days where the café is actually closed, he’d be here twenty-four-seven. 

Stevie gives Patrick a triumphant smile, knowing she hit the nail on the head with that analysis. 

“Alright, so I dove headfirst into the store because I’m passionate—” Stevie rolls her eyes. “—and yeah, maybe I haven’t really seen the light of day because of it.” 

“Case in point.” She folds her hands on the table. 

The bell rings then, giving Patrick an out from the conversation. He stands before Stevie can protest, heading back out front.

“Hi, what can I get for you?”

The man in front of the counter has a pair of thick-framed white sunglasses dangling between his fingers, his heavy brows knitted together as he studies the menu board above them.

“Do you have flavors?” His voice is a bit pitched in question.

“Hazelnut, vanilla, caramel, mocha. We have lavender, almond and cinnamon syrups as well,” Patrick lists. 

“A caramel macchiato, skim, two sweeteners,” the man says, and Patrick’s eyes go wide. “To go.”

He holds in any initial comments he has. “Coming right up.” 

Patrick’s about to put a lid on the cup when the man speaks up from behind him. “Can you put in a bit of cocoa powder? On top.”

“Sure.” He gives the cocoa tin a good shake over the coffee, lids it, and hands it over. “Anything else for you today?”

The man gazes at the glass pastry case as if contemplating its contents. “A chocolate croissant, please.”

Patrick bags it and hands it to him. “That’ll be $10.82.” 

As he fishes through his wallet, Patrick takes a second to study the guy. He’s wearing a loose black sweater with a bird adorning the front of it, and sweats or something of the like, presumably. It’s easy to ascertain that he’s not from around here.

The guy hands his card over, and Patrick smiles as he turns the tablet around for him to sign. “You’re all set, David.”

He narrows his eyes at Patrick. 

“I saw your name on the card,” he clarifies.

“Uh-huh,” David waves a finger, “You better not have memorized those numbers.”

“I can assure you I did not.” Patrick raises his right hand. “Scout’s honor. Although, I am very good at memorizing things, so I could if I wanted to.” 

“You’re either very sure of yourself or very cocky,” he replies, and Patrick juts his chin toward the cup he’s holding. 

“How’s the coffee?”

David sips it hesitantly, and Patrick’s very entertained by his full body reaction. “It’s good.” His voice is tight. 

“That’s a pretty sweet order there.”

“Okay, do you always harass your customers like this?” His voice goes high and so do his eyebrows.

“Well unfortunately we don’t have a manager for you to bring that up with,” Patrick extends his arms outwards. “But I do own the place.” 

“Uh-huh. Well...thanks for the coffee.” He slides his glasses on, turning to leave.

Patrick smiles at his back as David retreats. “Enjoy the rest of your day.” It earns him a tight smile through the glass as the man exits off to the right. 

That man might be one of the most fascinating he’s ever seen in Mistmill. An anomaly, truly.

**

His feet are killing him. Patrick has his forehead resting on his arms as he leans against the counter in his parents’ kitchen. He’s grateful that Stevie closed today.

“Here you go, sweetheart.” He raises his head to see his mother holding a plate out to him. “Are you alright?”

Patrick nods, taking the plate. “I’m good. Long day.” 

Her lips pull downward on one side. “You work too hard, Patrick,” she says, ushering him into the dining room where his father is already sitting with a plate. 

“He’s working too hard?” He asks, feigning shock, and turns to Patrick. “Sorry, son, you got that from me.” 

“Oh, well now I know who to blame.”

“You two are carbon copies, I swear.” His mother sits down with a minor huff, and they dig in.

The pork chops are excellent, as always. Patrick relishes his mother’s home-cooked meals and counts himself lucky that he has such easy access. Even if she does insist on dropping food off for him once a week. Constant reminders that he’s an adult and can in fact cook for himself are always waved off with her insistence.

“Looks like someone moved into the Gellers’ home.” Patrick watches as his father dabs his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Rented, I’m assuming.”

“I just don’t understand why they haven’t put it up for sale already.” His mother sets down her fork. “They’ve been gone for months now, and they’re barely here to begin with.” 

“They’re in Florida, right?” Patrick asks.

“Yes,” she confirms. “They’re usually only there for the winter months, but by the looks of it, they’re probably not coming back for the warmer weather either.” She gives a lackluster shrug. “They’re older, Florida’s better suited for them.”

“Marcy,” his father scolds tamely. “Don’t be so eager.” 

“How am I being eager? That beautiful house is just going to waste sitting over the water like that! They should just sell it and let someone who really values that property take care of it.” 

Patrick exchanges an amused look with his father. 

“If we could afford it we’d be living in that house the second it went up for sale, I can promise you that,” she continues.

“I’ll start playing the lotto, then,” his father says, and Patrick laughs.

“Clint Brewer, don’t you dare,” she offers him a gentle warning. “I’m not serious. I love where we live and I wouldn’t change it, you know that.” 

That’s just his mother; she’s been subscribed to Better Homes and Gardens and Country Living for years. Part of Patrick used to wonder why she never went into realty or something of the like, considering her interest for it, but as he got older he realized that she just had a knack for making spaces beautiful with the things she already had. 

She wouldn’t go out and find old pieces to refurbish, per se, but she would rearrange rooms and move things around until everything looked entirely new.

“Happiness comes from quality, Patrick, not quantity,” she had repeatedly told him growing up.

It’s become his life’s motto, at this point.

Patrick listens on as his parents snicker at one another, thinks about the café and grins to himself. Big city things really didn’t suit him, and neither did lusting after a career that only seemed perfect on paper. The Mistmill Brew was far more rewarding. 

**

The bell rings out around one o’clock the following afternoon. It’s been a relatively slow day, save for their usual rush in the morning, and aside from the few people scattered at different tables, it’s quiet. 

Patrick looks over his shoulder from where he’s restocking the fridge up front. The guy from yesterday — David — is back. He’s wearing a fluffy black and white striped sweater. Patrick’s starting to think black is the dominant color in his wardrobe. 

“Hey,” he offers David a smile. “Same as yesterday?”

He gets a pressed smile in return, like he wasn’t expecting Patrick to remember him. “Yeah, it’s—”

“Caramel macchiato, skim, two sweeteners and a sprinkle of cocoa powder,” Patrick recites as he makes his way behind the counter. He picks up a paper cup. “It’s not that complicated.”

David gives him an unamused look. “My accommodations don’t have a coffee maker,” he offers. “Or an espresso machine. Just a plug-in kettle.”

Patrick gives a low whistle as he preps an espresso shot. “Must be rough.”

“A bit, yeah.” David gives a smile with bared teeth. 

“Aha. Where are you staying?” He pours a bit of skim milk into the metal pitcher and sets it under the spout. 

“I’m renting—” He’s cut off by the piercing whistle of the frother. Patrick lets it run, smirking and thoroughly amused by David’s pained expression. He rolled his eyes so far back Patrick’s convinced they might get stuck. “That was rude.”

“I had to froth the milk,” Patrick responds innocently. “You were saying?”

“I was saying that I’m renting a place nearby.” 

“Like one of those bungalows, then?”

David nods slowly. “Something like that.”

Patrick tilts his head. “That’s all then…?”

“Yeah,” he replies a bit sharp, “We don’t exactly know each other. How do I know you’re not an axe murderer or a stalker or something?”

“My name is Patrick,” he says, pointing to himself. “I own a coffee shop. I couldn’t be an axe murderer because one, I don’t own an axe and two, the only way I would be able to murder you with any of my equipment here would be by, I don’t know, dropping a sack of coffee beans on your head.” He picks up the caramel syrup. “And that would take a lot of work.” 

David squints. “You think you’re funny.”

“Oh, I pride myself on my humor.” Patrick finishes David’s drink and brings it to him at the till. “Just the coffee today?”

“Do you have any blueberry muffins?” David glances idly over at the pastry case.

“We are fresh out of those right now, but I do have a slice of crumb cake that’s pretty good.”

He shrugs with an accompanying shake of his head. “Sure.” 

Patrick puts a piece in a paper bag. “On me,” he says, trading the cake for David’s card. “Because you thought I was an axe murderer.”

“And you’re still trying to prove me wrong?” It’s lighthearted, certainly not as rigid as David was earlier. Patrick kind of likes it. 

“Well, only time will tell,” he responds coyly. He waves David off, grabbing a crate of glass tea bottles and returning to his earlier restocking. 

David’s on one of the cushioned benches by the big front windows by the time Patrick comes around the counter. He’s about to inform him of the multitude of mugs they have on hand, his mouth already forming the words, but he stops himself. David has a whole setup: an open sketchbook, Patrick pretty sure, and he’s twirling a dark pencil in his hand as he looks out at the sound, his chin resting in his other. There’s a second or two before David glides the pencil across the page, leaving stark strokes in its path. 

Definitely a sketchbook, then.

If Patrick were to define this moment with one word alone, it would be serene. Patrick’s no artist; he’s the furthest thing from it, and he was able to take a music course for his art credit in college, but he doesn’t miss the way the pale sunlight catches on David. Maybe serene isn’t the right word. Maybe it’s picturesque. 

People are in and out of here all the time doing work of all kinds. Patrick doesn’t think this should be any different. It might just be that David stands out — and he does. He just makes Patrick curious.

He’s still sitting there some forty minutes later, and Patrick can’t quite make out what it is that David’s drawing. Whatever it is, he’s going to town on it. 

Patrick sets a mug and saucer down on the little table. “Figured you’d need some fuel,” he reasons when David looks up. Patrick scoops up the pastry bag and paper cup. “What are you working on?” 

The book is closed with haste. “Just...a thing.” David tucks his lips between his teeth. “I, um, I draw. Occasionally.” 

“Oh. Well I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Patrick gives him a curt nod, sensing the slight discomfort. “I’ll leave you to it, David.” 

When four o’clock rolls around, Patrick doesn’t have the heart to tell him that they’re closed. David’s got his nose buried into a new page, new lines being drawn and shading added. Patrick just sets a leftover danish on the table next to David, flips the sign on the door to “Closed,” and carries on with his cleaning. 

**

David’s not there the next day, or the day after that. Patrick wonders briefly if he’s left town then, that his stay in Mistmill had ended. He doesn’t think about it for too long, though. The rush comes and doesn’t really seem to stop until noon. Patrick’s too busy taking orders and catching up with the regulars. 

Barry from the diner keeps him occupied for a significant amount of time. Patrick doesn’t mind; he’s a kind old man and the diner’s been in business for nearly forty years. He always has a story to share, and Patrick is always more than happy to lend an ear. 

Around five, Stevie slumps into a chair with a groan. “I’m beat,” she says.

Patrick shakes his head. “You’re always beat.” He pulls the felt specials board off the wall with ease. “Any ideas on a drink feature?” He calls to Stevie over his shoulder. They still have the lavender latte up from two weeks ago. 

Stevie whistles a tricky tune, thinking. “I got nothin’.” 

“Has anyone ever told you that you are a great help?” Patrick sets the board down on the table, palms flat on either side of it.

“You tell me all the time.” She gives him her most sarcastic smile, closed-lipped. 

He laughs. “Right.” Patrick studies the board like it’ll give him the answer. The only thing that stares back at him are the words Featured Drink placed almost permanently along the top in white, and Lavender Almond Milk Latte, $4.50. 

In the end, Stevie suggests something else with almond, and Patrick brings back the fan-favorite maple almond flat white from the previous winter. He mounts it back up on the wall, and Stevie’s got her denim jacket draped over her shoulders when he comes back down the stepladder. 

“Jake’s?” 

Patrick nods happily. “Jake’s.”

**

A bottle and a glass are set in front of them respectively with a clunk against the old lacquered wood. Jake’s is aptly named after its owner and barkeep. It's rustic and mismatched and always just a little too warm. Patrick thinks it’s because Jake wants his patrons to take their clothes off, and Stevie thinks it’s because Jake wants to take his clothes off. She would know, since she’s been down that path.

“Stevie, Patrick.” Jake’s voice is smooth. “Good to see you guys tonight. It’s been a while.” 

“Work’s been busy.” Patrick rotates the bottle slowly. “Kind of dead-tired by the end of the day.”

“I get it,” Jake says, wiping down the bar with a tattered rag. “You and I basically keep opposite hours. Doors open at five, and we close at one.” He turns to Stevie. “Always makes my night when you two stop by, though.” 

Patrick eyes her. Stevie’s definitely sitting up a little taller. He snickers to himself. 

“You know,” Jake leans down on the bar, the collar of his loose tank dipping to reveal what’s probably the intended amount of chest. Patrick does humor himself with a quick look. “I’m planning on having a whiskey night next week. I’d love it if you guys could come.” 

“I should be able to stop by,” Stevie replies as cool as she can. “I probably don’t have anything going on.” 

Jake smiles. “Great. Patrick?”

“Oh, I’d have to see what my schedule is like. Gonna be a busy week.” He takes a long sip of his beer, barring any other questions from him. 

“Ah, that’s too bad.” He slings the rag over his shoulder, standing upright again. “I’ll text you about it later, pony.” It’s directed at Stevie, and Patrick absolutely revels in the heated blush blooming on her cheeks. “Let me know when you’re ready for another round,” Jake winks, leaving them to tend to a group across the bar.

Patrick’s eyes go wide. “Wow…” 

“Stop it.” Stevie’s looking at a spot off in the distance. “Shut up.”

“I cannot believe he’s still trying to get in your pants,” Patrick muses, his bottle up by his lips.

“Never stopped,” she grumbles, and Patrick immediately coughs into his beer.

“I’m sorry?”

“Listen.” She flexes her fingers out. “He’s just...really good, so. Leave it.” 

He’s so not leaving it, because Patrick is very interested now. “So you two have been doing this a lot then?”

“Not — not a lot.” Stevie downs half her drink in one gulp. She sets her glass down again and pulls a finger through the ring of condensation it left behind. She mumbles something incomprehensible. 

“What was that?”

Stevie twists her lips. “We’ve...hooked up a bit,” she repeats just a little bit clearer.

“So you’re enjoying Jake’s whiskey nights, then?” Patrick drags his teeth over his bottom lip, fully basking in how flustered his friend is. “And hey—Where did pony come from?”

“Okay!” She jabs a finger at him, clearly perturbed. “Excuse me, but Jake’s trying to get in your pants, too!”

“Stop deflecting,” he smirks pointedly.

“I’m not deflecting! Who’s deflecting? He totally is!”

“No, no, no, no, no. I’m not going down that path again. Last Christmas was more than enough.”

Patrick was smart enough to never attend one of Jake’s personal whiskey nights. He generally always had a bit of wariness about the whole debacle, but he’d be damned if he didn’t admit to the great holiday party the guy threw every year. The drink prices were slashed, the whole town was there and it really made for a great night. 

Several glasses of bourbon, loose inhibitions, and Jake practically pinning him against a wall are what he remembers the clearest from the last one. It never got any further than that. 

But Jake’s been trying to get Patrick to go to one of his orgies-disguised-as-tastings for the better part of a year now. It’s not exactly his forte. Truth be told, there were only so many people in this town; the potential for dating, at least for Patrick, was few and far between. He’s never really been one to put himself first, anyway, always working, always helping, always doing. 

His excuse might be that he doesn’t have time to date when really, he just doesn’t give himself the time. The town is small, anyway. Patrick wouldn’t be meeting anyone. 

The minor interest he had in Jake was a surface-level thing, nothing more or less. A good-looking guy with a low voice and no shame about his sexuality. 

Alright, maybe Patrick was a little bit envious of Jake’s openness, but again, surface-level stuff. Patrick’s open to a degree, but it’s more like he’s comfortable and cruising along. There are just some things that hold him back. Confidence, for one.

He takes another swig of beer, washing the thought down with the hoppy taste. “So are you gonna go?” He asks, and Stevie scoffs.

“We are not talking about that here.” She drains the rest of her drink and flags Jake down for another. 

Patrick’s eyes narrow. “So you’re not going to stay behind when I decide to leave?”

She blinks at him lamely, unconvincingly. “Nope.” It’s a bit choked. “Whatever you want to do next, I am...cool.” 

“Are you, though?” She’s absolutely not, and Patrick is just seeing how far he can twist the knife.

Stevie hums. She accepts the new drink from Jake — it’s accompanied by a wink, and Patrick wonders if she catches it — and sips it slower than her last.

“So I guess I’ll just head out then.” Patrick stands, beer long since finished. “I’m thinking about grabbing dinner, renting a movie.” Stevie’s nodding along. “And you can stay here and, you know, enjoy Jake.” 

“You’re kind of the worst,” she mutters under her breath, and Patrick chuckles. 

“I’m not, but you have fun.” He stops himself. “Oh, and thanks for the beer.” He gives Stevie a pat on the back and leaves her in his wake, more than likely with a scowl in his direction.

He can torment her more about it when he sees her next.

**

The weather’s warming up. It’s a cool morning, but it’s nice enough that Patrick can break out the paddle board. He has a pair of board shorts and a life vest on as he drifts along the sound.

He did this all the time when he was a kid; nearly every weekend in the summer he and a group of friends would come out here at the crack of dawn and paddle as the sun rose over the town. Rachel was always there, too, usually initiating some sloppy jousting with her paddle only to fall backward into the water. 

Patrick slips his phone out of the waterproof pocket of his life vest and snaps a photo of the water, the sunlight bouncing off its crystal surface.

Rach  
  
**Today** 9:01 AM  
Tell me you don’t miss this.  
  


Her response is almost immediate: 

lol call me when you’re done out there, cowboy.  
  


He smiles, tucking his phone away again. Patrick’s always liked this: the water, the birds, the salty air. Paddling on the sound is where he came up with the café, at least the very barebones of it, and where his mind wanders most.

Nature, really. It’s what he likes most about this place. Just a few miles out of town are some of the greatest hiking trails in the region, and Patrick knows them well.

For the next half hour, he lets the water take him where it wants. He drifts by a trio of women walking along the rocky shoreline, and he lifts his hand to wave. They wave back, and he’s sure he recognizes at least one of them from his mother’s book club. Beth, maybe, or Betty. Who’s to say? 

It’s when he’s paddling past the tall, stilted homes that practically hang beautifully over the water, when his legs are beginning to grow stiff, that something catches his eye. Or someone, really.

There are at least four beachfront properties with their own private docks, the homes nestled into the trees. Patrick sees him sitting on a painted blue Adirondack chair positioned at the end of the walk, one leg crossed over the other, sunglasses on and a book in his lap. 

David. 

Patrick smiles privately and, as carefully as he can, he lifts his paddle up to wave. He’s some twenty yards away, so he’s not going to shout and scare the guy, but eventually David does glance up and wave back, albeit tentatively. He probably has no clue it’s Patrick who’s waving at him.

And it’s not the fact that David’s still in town that gets him, it’s where he’s sitting. The house towering behind him, with its wooden siding and big windows, is the house that’s owned by the Geller family.

Because how the fuck can David afford a house like that, let alone rent it? Patrick would have heard if he was working in town; it’s small enough that news travels fast, so that can’t be the case. The Gellers must be lenient with the rental cost. There’s just no other way. 

Patrick shakes himself out of his trance — or rather, nearly losing his balance on the board does. He moves along back toward the shore, and when he looks back over his shoulder, David’s head has dipped back down toward his book. 

The next time he sees David — if — he’ll ask him. It’s innocent curiosity, right? 

When the paddle board is secured on the rental stand and his life vest is tossed in the trunk of his car, Patrick dials Rachel.

“Hey, what’s happening?”

He smiles at the soothing familiarity of her voice. “Hey, Rach.” 

“Was that photo just to make me jealous, or was that your ill attempt at saying you miss me?” 

There’s her snark. “A little of both,” Patrick admits, and Rachel laughs from her end. “What’s new with you?”

“Oh, not too much, you know.” There’s some shuffling in the background and a click of a door shutting. “Work’s picking up a bit,” she says on an exhale, “Chris just got promoted, so that means he’s traveling a bit more.” 

“Yeah? How’s he doing?” Patrick likes Chris. He’s a charming, kindhearted guy who is perfect for Rachel. She’s still, to this day, one of his best friends, and they’re still each other’s biggest supporters. When Rachel first started dating Chris, she called up Patrick to tell him. Truly, he was so happy for her.

“He’s good.” Patrick can hear the smile in her voice. “Things are getting pretty serious. We’re looking for a place, actually.”

“Oh, Rach, I’m so happy to hear that,” he beams despite her being unable to see. “You guys better come visit soon.”

“Yeah, yeah, we will. How’s the café?”

“Thriving. Stevie’s a big help, despite her sarcasm.”

“If you could deal with my sarcasm on and off since we were fifteen, you can deal with Stevie’s. She means well, and she loves you.”

“Well that’s all relative. She’s a really good person. Sometimes I don’t think she sees that.” 

“Yeah, she’s a tough nut to crack,” Rachel agrees, “She trusts you though, she’s just guarded. Tell her I say hello, okay?”

“Of course.”

“But seriously,” she continues, “What’s new with you? Anyone special I should know about?”

Patrick sighs, tucking a hand into the bend of his arm. “No,” he admits, “I’ve been pretty busy. I haven’t been with anyone in...quite a while.”

“Patrick, you need to make time for yourself.” Rachel’s tough love is definitely still there. “You can’t just work until you die. Who am I going to call at two in the morning when I can’t sleep if you do?”

“I know, I just—” Patrick shakes his head, sighing again. “There’s no one really here. And really, I’m happy just working right now. I don’t mind that I’m single.”

“Uh-huh.” Patrick can hear her quick steps, a few cars driving past as she walks. “That doesn’t change the fact that you need a social life. Activities other than paddle boarding solo. Things that don’t just surround the coffee shop.” 

“I have baseball,” he argues.

“The season just ended, though, didn’t it?” She’s right.

“Yes.” Patrick pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m trying to figure out the logistics to hold events at the café, too. Open up to the community a bit more.” 

“That sounds like a step in the right direction for Patrick Brewer,” Rachel agrees, and he exhales. “I just want to see you happy.”

“I am happy, Rachel,” he says softly through the line. “I like working, I always have. You know that.”

“I just don’t want you burning out, you know?” Her voice is breathy as she walks. “See what’s out there for you. Okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Rach.” 

“Of course, Patrick. Tell your folks I said hello, yeah? And keep what I said in mind.” 

“I will,” he promises, and he really will. Old habits. “I’ll talk to you soon.” 

“You better,” she says, “And let me know when you make out with someone!” She laughs, and so does Patrick because of course she would say that. 

“Whatever you say.”

“I mean it,” Rachel says, and hangs up.

He stares out at the sound, at the houses all the way across the water, the docks, and then down toward the stretch of road where the coffee shop is. So what if this town is full of solitude? He likes it. He appreciates the slow pace of it all, of being able to live without the heavy expectations of some corporate boss. 

He’s happy here. Happier than he’s been in years. But Rachel’s right (and so is Stevie when she nags him, and so are his parents), he needs to expand his horizons, and he will. Slowly but surely.

**

“It’s wrong.” 

“How is it wrong exactly?”

“I said skim.” 

“I made it with skim.” 

“Well it doesn’t taste like you did.” 

Patrick’s enjoying this exchange much more than he should. He shuts the door gently behind him, eyeing Stevie where she stands behind the counter. She looks completely unfazed by the complaint she’s receiving from David.

He comes around, dropping his ledger off on the way. “Everything okay over here?” 

David’s hands are firmly set on his hips. “She made my drink wrong.” He sounds a little bitter. It’s more entertaining than it should be.

Patrick turns to Stevie. “Did you remember the cocoa powder?” He asks, not at all missing the narrowing of David’s eyes. 

“I did. He’s telling me I didn’t use the right milk, which—” She picks up a carton and within seconds, her cheeks are red. “Oh…”

“Aha!” David points an accusatory finger at her. “I knew it!”

“Alright, don’t be a dick,” Stevie shoots back with a smirk. “I’ll remake it.” 

Patrick really can’t help but laugh as Stevie sulks about remaking David's macchiato.

“Do you want this?” David asks him, holding the cup out, “I’m not going to drink it.”

He walks over to the sink to wash his hands. “No, I actually don’t drink coffee,” he says over his shoulder.

David’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. “You run a coffee shop.” 

“That I do,” Patrick replies, tying an apron around his waist. 

“And you don’t drink coffee?”

“That is correct,” he nods, “I don’t like the taste.” 

“How does that even work?” David asks bodily, his free hand flying outward. “What if you get a blend or something that you don’t like?”

“It’s called a roast,” Patrick corrects, setting a cinnamon bun on a plate and pushing it towards him. “And there are sober bartenders, David.” 

“But that’s different,” he exclaims. “They don’t own the bar.” 

Patrick shrugs. “They might.” 

“This is a clusterfuck,” David mutters. “How do you run a place like this and not drink coffee?” 

“It’s worked out for two years. I just drink tea, and the fanciest I get is the occasional Chai latte.” 

“How do you function?”

“Tea has caffeine,” is as witty a reply as he gives. 

David eyes him. “You’re...something else, Patrick.”

He smiles. “Thank you.” 

“Here is your heart attack-inducing macchiato,” Stevie announces, setting his remade drink carefully on the counter. “Sorry for fucking up your first one. I hope I haven’t fully mired your opinion of me.” 

David clears his throat. “Not fully. But I will have to taste this first.” 

“I added extra cocoa powder to make up for it,” she adds, “I hope that’s not, um, ‘incorrect,’ as you said earlier.” 

Patrick barely knows David, and Stevie only just met him today, but he can already see that the two of them are eerily similar. 

“There can never be too much cocoa powder,” David says through twisted lips, and hands his card to Patrick. He points to the pastry. “What’s this?” 

“Twyla makes them. She runs the bakery a few blocks over, she supplies everything in this case.” He pats the top of it twice. “You should stop in when you have some time. Tell her I sent you. She’s chatty and her stories are something, but she’s a sweetheart and means well.”

David offers him a small smile. “Thanks,” he nearly whispers, taking his card back and gathering up his things. 

He makes a beeline to the same table he took the other day, the bench by the windows. David sits picking away at his cinnamon bun and grimaces at his phone as he scrolls through it. At one point, even over the sound of the coffee grinder, Patrick can hear him huff like the device has personally offended him. 

With a clatter, he sets his phone face-down on the tabletop and begins rummaging around in his bag. David pulls out the sketchbook he was using the last time Patrick saw him, flicks through to a heavily-marked page, and studies it. 

Patrick eventually meanders over to take his empty cup. “Stevie remade the coffee okay?”

David looks up, slightly startled. “What? Yeah, yes. She did.” 

“Good, I’ll let her know.” He pauses, hovering awkwardly. “Hey, so, weird question. But was that you out on the Gellers’ dock this morning?”

“Whose?” David’s face is screwed up in confusion. “Oh, the one—Yeah, that was me. Were you the guy on that little surfboard waving at me?”

“It’s called a paddle board, but yes. That was me.”

“And that’s just something you do for fun, then? Paddle?” He actually looks very proud of that comment.

“A lot of people do that here,” Patrick confirms, “You should try it sometime.”

“Mh, hard pass.” 

“But I also hike,” he adds.

David visibly shudders. “That’s too much physical activity for me. It sounds like a lot of sweating.”

“It helps me clear my mind.” Patrick shoves one hand in his pocket, hesitating on his next question. “I’m sorry if this is a bit forward, but how can you afford that place?”

He looks back down at his page, and for the few seconds it takes before he closes it, Patrick catches a glimpse of a shoreline, probably from David’s perspective sitting on the dock. “The rental price wasn’t terrible.” 

“It’s the most expensive piece of property around here,” Patrick explains, and David still looks sheepish. “It’s right on the water!” 

“I needed to get away from New York for a bit. So I rented a house.” He says it like it’s an all-too-common thing to do. Which, maybe it is. Patrick wouldn’t really know. He split the occasional cabin with Rachel and some of their old friends, but that was as close as they got. He never rented anything by himself.

“So you just...rented the most expensive house in Mistmill for...how long, exactly?”

David shrugs, “Six months.”

Patrick’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “Six months? The Gellers are letting you rent it for six months?”

“I mean, I can afford it,” David shrugs again. “I told you, I needed to get out of dodge for a little while. It’s nice, it’s quiet…”

“Yeah, but I thought you were renting an apartment or one of the bungalows by the water or something. Instead you’re renting a stilted house with its own dock overlooking the entire sound.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” David raises his finger. “You assumed that I was renting a bungalow.”

“Right, but you didn’t confirm nor deny my assumption,” he placates. “How was I supposed to know?”

David purses his lips. “Not to sound like a dick, but I’m proud of how anonymous I’ve been since coming here.”

Patrick actually outright laughs at him, completely in awe. “Now I’m curious. What do you do that you can afford renting that place?” It’s not a mansion by any means, but waterfront property is waterfront property, and it does indeed cost a pretty penny.

“You—you really don’t know who my family is, do you?”

“Am I supposed to?” He asks, shrugging. 

“No? But also just—Thank god.” David shuts his eyes tightly. He leans into the table, both of his hands balled into fists as he draws in a breath. “I’m David Rose,” he says trepidatiously.

“I know that already,” Patrick smiles, remembering the credit card conversation from David’s first visit. 

“Rose. Like...Rose Video.” 

It takes a second for David’s statement to actually connect. “O—oh!” 

He starts nodding very quickly, as if he can’t stop the action. “Yeah...It’s why I chose to come here as opposed to Toronto or L.A. or something. My family’s pretty well-known.”

“Moira Rose.” Patrick says it slowly. His own mother used to watch Sunrise Bay when it was airing years ago. Maybe she still does. Clearly he doesn’t follow soaps, but they seem to be never ending. 

“You’re not going to run around and tell everyone are you?” David actually looks...concerned?

“Why would I do that?” Patrick asks honestly. “You’re here to do whatever it is you want to do, and I’m not here to out you.” He offers David a comforting smile. “This town doesn’t care who you are; they’re just here to make you feel welcome. Whether you’ve been here your whole life or five minutes.”

David’s shoulders actually seem to fall away from his ears at that, the tension in his body releasing. 

“I’ll make you another?” Patrick offers as he takes the other small plate and stacks it with the saucer he has in-hand.

“Sure. Thank you.” David smiles, his right hand gripping his pencil tightly. “Can you actually let me pay for this one though? You’ve only been charging me for about fifty percent of what I order when I come here.” 

Patrick scoops up the flatware, returning the smile. “It’s what friends do.”

“O-oh.” David clears his throat. “Are we friends, though?”

“If you’re going to be here for as long as you say you are, then why not? It couldn’t hurt, right?”

“I guess not. Does this mean I have an obligation to come here daily or something?” 

“Not necessarily, but I wouldn’t be entirely opposed to it. I could show you around town, too.” 

For the first time, Patrick sees David smile genuinely. He’s a bit doe-eyed, but that doesn’t deflect from the heavily-dimpled grin. “Okay.”

Patrick swears he sees one brick fall. It’s clear that David’s erected a wall around himself, and he feels a bit triumphant. 

“Cool. I’ll, uh, be right back.” He gives David a nod, taking what he can get.

**

David starts to come around almost daily, always occupying the same table and always working on something. Stevie’s taken to him like a moth to flame, throwing his quips right back at him, and Patrick sincerely enjoys his company. He’s noticed his quirks, too. For one, David talks with his hands, using them to accentuate his points and paint the contours of a story. They fly around so much that Patrick’s nearly unable to follow their movements.

There’s a night where they manage to get him to go to Jake’s, who’s immediately intrigued by the new face. Stevie relishes David’s reaction to Jake’s flirting and how he stumbles over his words when he tries to speak to Jake. 

Over the course of two dirty martinis for David and two beers for Stevie and Patrick respectively, they learn about his family’s extravagancies and his sister’s history of hopping on a plane and not letting anyone know where she is until she gets there. 

“I’ve saved her ass too many times and I have never once gotten a thank you,” David had said bitterly mid-sip. “And she just expects me to always be there, but I’m not.” 

Patrick won’t admit how much it hurt to hear David say that, the deep pang in his chest making him exchange a twin look with Stevie. But they each learn relatively quickly, that regardless of the circumstance, sometimes it’s just better to let David run the gamut. 

He even tries to get David to come out on the water with him one morning. It doesn’t go over well, much to Patrick’s amusement (“I’m sorry, are you fucking nuts? None of my clothes will be getting wet, and no offense but I don’t exactly trust you not knocking me in.”)

And well, okay. Maybe David has a point. Patrick does have the tendency to do that.

**

“Do you live here or something?” David asks one morning as they watch a man with a hand truck unload boxes of paper goods into the cafè. “Like, you’re always here.” 

“I own the place. Of course I’m always here.” 

David sips his coffee. “No, but seriously,” he says into his mug, “I feel like you never take a day off.” 

“We’re closed on Sundays.”

“Patrick.”

“Stevie handles the place when I’m not here,” Patrick says, tilting his head to the side. “But I do live upstairs, actually.” 

David chuckles. “Of course you do. Like in the attic?” 

“No, I have the apartment upstairs.” 

David looks at him, bewildered. “Okay?”

“I figured it was a good deal; I buy the old deli and get the apartment with it.” 

“So you really do never leave.” 

Patrick shrugs. “Guess not.”

“All set,” the guy says. “Last name?” He ticks something off on his screen.

“Brewer.”

“Got it. Have a nice day.”

“You, too.” Patrick holds the door for him as he leaves, hand truck rolling in front of him.

“Hang on a second.” David waves his hands around. “Your last name is Brewer?”

“Yeah,” Patrick replies, a hand on his hip. “Why?”

David taps a finger on the table, lips tucked inward like he’s stifling his laughter. “And this place is called The Mistmill Brew.” It’s not a question.

“Yeah. What are you getting at here, David?”

“Just the fact that you basically named this place after yourself.”

Patrick huffs out a laugh. “I mean sure, but also the town. And it’s a coffee shop.”

David cups his hand around his mug. “Oh?” He nods along with a pursed smile. “So it’s a pun?”

“Yeah. This place isn’t about me, it’s about the town and the people. You know, the quality of the people, the quality of what we serve here.” 

“This is all sounding very preachy,” David observes, waving his hand again.

“Well normally the common misconception I get is that people think it’s a pub when they first see the name.”

“Sure, I can see that,” he agrees.

“And then, very occasionally, I have to explain that this place is too small to do our own roasting. We just brew everything here, and it wasn’t intended to be a pun.” Patrick tucks both of his hands into his pockets. “Any other arguments?”

“No,” David says, but within seconds he’s chuckling again.

“Oh, alright then!” Patrick slides the chair out across from David and takes a seat. “What would you name a place if you owned it?”

“I have owned a place,” he corrects, “I owned a gallery.”

“That’s something I’d definitely like to hear about, but if you owned a store or something smaller, what would you name it?”

David actually thinks for a moment, and Patrick’s brows climb increasingly higher with his own curiosity. “Something...Apothecary,” he finally announces, but he sounds a little unsure.

Patrick hums, “A little pretentious, but it works if you name it after yourself.”

“And The Mistmill Brew isn’t pretentious?” David gawks. 

“I stand by my earlier philosophy.”

**

It’s when David’s been in Mistmill for a month that Patrick finally asks him about his sketches.  
He takes the seat across from him at the table and sets a gentle hand over David’s when he moves to snap the book shut. 

“You don’t have to jump every time I come by, David.” Patrick takes his hand away, moving it back into his own space. “You’re always working on something. I was just curious.” 

“Uh, it’s...It’s nothing, really.” He sets his pencil down but it doesn’t fully leave his grip.

Patrick smiles softly. “Okay.” 

The bell rings with the door opening, and naturally Patrick gets to his feet. He lets his professional composure fall when he sees his mother smiling back at him, a bag slung over her shoulder and two new bundles of flowers in her arms.

“Hi, my sweet boy.” She pulls him into a hug immediately. “These are for you, maybe you can put one upstairs?”

He laughs, “Sure, thank you.” 

“I know I’m a little early, but is it okay if I get everything set up? The girls should be here soon.” 

“Of course,” Patrick says, gesturing to the far side of the café. “It’s all yours.”

“Okay,” she replies. She looks over at David, then back at Patrick. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you boys.” 

“You weren’t.” Patrick puts his hands up. “Mom, this is David. He’s new in town.” 

David gives her a shy wave. “Hi.” 

“I’m Marcy,” she returns the wave, “and it’s nice to meet you, David. How are you liking it here?” 

“It’s...quaint,” he supplies, “but it’s really nice.” He glances at Patrick nervously. 

“I’m happy to hear. You know what?” Patrick watches as she lifts one of the bouquets carefully and sets it on the table next to David’s. “Why don’t you take these? It’s always nice to have fresh flowers in your home. They always brighten up the place.”

David looks at them in awe, his mouth hanging open. “O-oh, thank you, Mrs. Brewer,” he manages to get out, and she sighs lightly.

“Patrick, your friends really are never going to call me by my first name, are they?”

“I’m afraid not. Sorry, Mom.” 

She squeezes his arm, transferring the other flowers to Patrick. “Oh, well. What can you do? I’ll leave you boys to it, then.” 

“Did your mom just bring you flowers?” David asks when she walks away. He’s watching her, his expression somewhere between curiosity and intrigue. 

“Yeah, she works at the florist in town. She’s always bringing them.” 

“And she gave them to me because…?”

Patrick shrugs. “She likes you. My mom just likes to make everyone feel welcome.” 

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” David replies with a quirk of his lips. “She kind of seems like a ray of sunshine.” 

“She definitely is,” Patrick agrees, taking his seat again, “But she has her moments.”

“Mama bear?” He asks.

“Definitely.”

David nods toward where she’s pulling several chairs into a circle. “What’s she doing?”

“Her book club meets here every month. It’s better than the library; there can be some serious waitlists for those rooms.” 

David blinks hard. “This town has like ten people.” 

“Mistmill has significantly more than ten people living here, David, but sure.” Patrick shakes his head. “Are you going to hang around for awhile? I’m going to put these in water and brew some tea for the group.” 

“You don’t need me to leave?” He questions, already moving to set his things back in his bag. “If you need the space for them—“

“No, of course not!” Patrick watches David’s body ease and becomes less rigid. “They don’t rent the place out. It’s not a private event.”

“Oh...Okay, well then yeah, take your time. I’ll be here.” 

Patrick grabs a few platters and arranges an assortment of baked goods onto them, passing them along to his mother over the far side of the counter. She sets a careful hand on his shoulder when he walks over with a tray of cups and tea bags. 

“David seems nice,” she says gently.

“He is,” Patrick agrees. He glances over his shoulder, seeing David buried into his book once again. “Definitely a bit jumpy? No, jumpy isn’t the right word.” He grabs the carafe of hot water from the countertop. “Timid?” He guesses, but that doesn’t sound right, either. David’s not a puppy. “He’s still getting comfortable here, so I think he’s just trying to…” 

“Fit in?” His mother supplies, “Not feel like he’s burdening anyone?”

“Yeah.” Patrick sets his hands on his hips, eyes cast downward. “Yeah, I guess so.” That breaks his heart a little bit, the word ‘burden.’ He certainly hopes David doesn’t feel that way here, but then again he did just offer to leave and give the book club space. 

His mother leans in, knocking into his shoulder. “I like him,” she practically sing-songs. “He’s very handsome.”

“Mom.” Patrick ignores the knowing look she gives him in favor of rearranging a few chairs. “It’s not that.” 

“Okay, okay,” she says, giggling. “I’ll back off. Why don’t you invite him over for dinner with us one of these nights? It would be nice to get to know him.”

Patrick shakes his head lightly. “I don’t think he’d agree to that, actually. David’s not really used to people being this nice.” It sounds worse saying it out loud to his mother than it does in his head. Oof. “He’s not used to this generosity, you know? I’m pretty sure his family works more as individuals than as a unit. They go for long periods of time without even talking, so. Plus, he was completely thrown off by the flowers you wound up giving him.” 

“Oh, I didn’t mean to—“

“Mom.” Patrick puts his hands up. “It’s fine. Really, I think he’s appreciative of them.”

She looks at David for a moment, and Patrick recognizes that warm maternal instinct, that itch to want to take care of another person; it’s very much the Marcy Brewer Default.

“He’s lucky to have a friend like you, sweetie,” she says after a moment. Patrick thinks her voice might be a little tight. 

“I’m just trying to break down that wall a bit, you know? Melt that outer layer.” 

She smiles at him in that prideful way. “You’re getting there.” She kisses his cheek just as the ladies trickle in.

Patrick stays a moment to say hello and play a brief game of catch up before leaving them to it. He strides back over to David, his hands shoved into the deep pockets of his apron. 

“Have you been to Barry and June’s?”

David looks up, brows knitted together. “What?”

“The diner a few blocks over,” he clarifies. “If you’re not doing anything after they leave, would you like to grab dinner?”

“Really?” 

“I figured you could use an actual meal. You know, something other than baked goods.” 

David looks at him hesitantly, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. “I could just meet you?”

“No, stay,” Patrick insists, “This space is as much yours as it is theirs.”

“But it’s actually your space,” David argues. 

“Sure,” Patrick shrugs, “my name is on the lease, but it’s less about that and more about the people who come here.”

David blinks slowly. “You really are one of a kind, Patrick.”

“That’s familiar,” he beams. “They’ll be here an hour tops, and then I’ll lock up and we can go. You’ll love it, and June will adore you.”

“Are you trying to set me up?” He asks, although jokingly. 

“No, I’m just warning you; June has a tendency to pinch cheeks.”

**

Surprisingly (thankfully, Patrick thinks), June only pinches his cheeks, not David’s. 

She hurries them to a narrow booth with a vinyl table, sets two glasses of water down and returns with menus. And, as it turns out, David brought the flowers with him instead of taking Patrick up on his offer to leave them at the coffee shop until they were finished. They sit in their wrap off to the side on the table.

Their knees knock underneath, and Patrick keeps his hands folded on its surface. 

“Right then,” June comes over with her notepad, multitudes of pages folded over. “What can I get you boys today?”

David starts. “A turkey club, please.” He purses his lips momentarily. “With well done fries.” 

June nods. “Patrick?”

“I’ll have the same,” he smiles, handing her their folded menus. “Thank you.” 

“Be back in a few.” 

David rocks in his seat a bit. “This place is cute.” 

“June and her husband, Barry, opened this place forty years ago,” Patrick explains. “Their kids worked here, and so do a few of their grandkids.” 

“Charming,” David supplies distractedly. He’s too busy looking around at the black and white checkered tile, the painted green wood, the other patrons in the narrow restaurant. 

A trio of girls are huddled together at the countertop, a group of men are chortling about something, and there’s a young family sitting a few seats away. When the toddler lets out a screech, they both jump, Patrick with a finger pressed into his ear.

“That’s nice,” he grumbles, smiling weakly. He gives his eyebrows a raise at David. 

“Why do children insist on being so fucking loud?”

Patrick laughs. “You’ll just have to go ask her that.” He points to the little girl who’s now smacking her hands ferociously against the table as her mother tries to get her to stop. “I’m sure she’ll have a reasonable explanation.” 

“No, I think I’ll pass on that,” David says primly. He looks away from Patrick again, one hand toying absently with the brown paper wrapping around the flowers.

“David.”

“Hm?”

“You okay?” 

He hesitates before bringing his hands together and fiddling with the thick silver bands on his right. “This place has a lot of stories…”

Patrick tilts his head to one side. “Yeah, I guess so. But I’d argue that most places have stories.”

“No, I mean like…” David shakes his head. “This place has been around for years? And it’s family owned and operated.” He spins a ring around. “I’ve never seen a place that has so much to tell.” 

“What about libraries?” Patrick muses questioningly. “Museums?”

He shakes his head, “Not what I meant.” David pauses to take a breath, collect his thoughts. “I mean, like...everyone kind of knows each other, right? And about each other. And they care. Where I come from,” he continues with a short laugh, “people don’t care.”

Huh. Patrick’s never really thought of it that way. Maybe it’s because he’s lived here all his life, so he’s just part of these stories. 

“Well,” Patrick points to the counter where the girls are sitting, “right over there is where my dad and I sat and ate grilled cheese after he burned our dinner while my mom was away when I was ten.” He turns, pointing now past David to the line of half-booths against the back wall. “Over there,” he says, “is where my little league team celebrated with an ice cream party after we won the championship.” 

David’s smile is soft and his dark eyes sparkle even in the flood of white fluorescent light above them. It’s nice.

“And in this very booth,” Patrick taps on the table, “This is where I sat on my first date.”

“Okay, that’s sweet,” David admits, and Patrick shifts in his seat, their knees hitting again.

“You don’t really see these kinds of things in New York,” David says after a beat. “I mean, I guess you could if you know where to look, but they’re always washed out by a new crowd of people trying to be something they’re not, or they’re always too big a deal and too crowded. Not to mention the places my family used to drag me...Gaudy, showy, always had an air of pretension and bitter elegance that kind of forced you to make a statement. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a place so small with so much to say.” 

“That’s...quite the observation there.” Patrick offers himself up a bit. 

And, really, he’s at a loss for words beyond that. It’s quite a profound statement, and from what he’s gathered over their blossoming friendship, David isn’t exactly one for profound things. Patrick has a lot to learn about him and he’s excited to slowly remove each layer and see what else he finds.

One thing is for sure: David Rose knows a beautiful thing when he sees it. Patrick’s beginning to think this small town diner might be one of those things.

June returns with two plates of chicken clubs piled high with french fries. She skirts away with a familiar smile, only returning to fill their water glasses and drop the check. Patrick swipes it before David can even lift a finger.

“Patrick,” he groans, “you can’t buy dinner!”

“Why not?” Patrick asks, keeping the paper receipt close to his chest.

“Because you’re constantly giving me free stuff at the café. How is this fair?”

“You’ll buy next time.” He gets up from the table quickly, not letting David argue further as he heads up front to pay. 

By the time David catches up with him, the bill is settled and June is handed a generous tip. She hugs Patrick, like she always does, and pinches his cheeks again. 

“He’s quite the handsome guy, isn’t he?” She murmurs to him with a jerk of her head toward David, who’s preoccupied by a wall of framed photographs.

He just quirks a brow in response and wanders over to the wall. “Are you in any of these?” David asks. 

“Right there.” He points to a framed photo just to the left of David’s gaze. A younger version of himself is dressed in a deep navy and white baseball uniform and matching ballcap, round-faced and smiling brightly. “That very year, we won the championship,” Patrick announces, and beside him David has a look of wonder on his face.

“You’re adorable,” he chuckles.

Patrick breathes in. “I was a pretty mean shortstop.”

David nods absently. “Sure.” 

“It’s the position between second and third base,” Patrick explains, knowing well enough that David has absolutely no clue — or possibly interest — about what he’s talking about. “And then I played left field when I got a bit older.”

“Sure,” David repeats.

“Did you ever play baseball, David?” Patrick knows he’s toeing uncharted territory. 

“I’ll have you know,” David begins, spinning toward him with a finger raised, “that I was forced against my will to play for one season.” 

“One season, huh?”

He winces. “Okay, less than one season. I got hit a lot and they would let me go home early because of it.” 

Patrick can’t help but laugh at that image. He’s had his fair share of whacks in the back and side from a ball, but there’s something unsaid about David’s story that makes him think it was always intentional. 

Either that, or his friend has absolutely no hand-eye coordination. It’s a toss up, really.

David grimaces. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.” 

“My lips are sealed, David,” he agrees, miming a zipping action. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. But you need to let me pay for my order tomorrow.” 

Patrick merely shrugs and says, “We’ll see,” before turning to leave the diner, David groaning in his wake.

**

He’s hit with the smell of freshly baked bread and cinnamon upon entering, and the sounds of some folky music coming from the back kitchen.

Twyla texted him late the night before asking him to pick up the order the next day before opening. George had come down with the stomach flu, so she would be flying solo all morning. Patrick doesn’t mind; he’s up early enough anyway. 

“Hello?” He calls out, shutting the door gently behind him. 

Twyla comes through the swinging doors with a heavy tray, smiling brightly. She sets it on the counter with a clatter. Her hair is tossed in a messy knot on her head and there’s a dusting of flour on her cheek. “Morning, Patrick!”

“I brought your coffee.” He sets the cup down by the register. “How’s George?”

“Oh, he’ll be fine,” she says with a wave of her hand, beginning to pile fresh loaves onto the cooling racks against the back wall. “He just needs a few days.” Twyla turns back to him with her hands on her hips. “You’re all good to go. Your order’s on the front table. Do you want me to throw in anything else? I have banana nut muffins.” 

“I think the usual is good for today,” Patrick says. He wanders over to the big pastry boxes, tearing the tape on one end to peer inside. There’s a smack from behind him, something almost spongy and dense hitting a solid surface.

Twyla’s kneading dough with dexterous hands, pulling forward and back, folding it in on itself. 

A timer goes off somewhere way back in the kitchen, a shrill staccato of a beep, and Twyla sighs. “Oh.”

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” Patrick’s already making a beeline toward the kitchen before she can answer. “Just for a little, at least. Stevie’s opening this morning.”

Twyla smiles, albeit a little shy. “If you wouldn’t mind grabbing that out of the oven and setting it on the cooling rack,” she says, gesturing toward the opposite end of the counter, “I would really appreciate that, Patrick.”

It’s how he spends his next half hour, dipping in and out of Twyla’s kitchen with hot trays. By the end of it all, she’s thrusting an apple turnover into his hands, ignoring Patrick’s protesting.

“You know, I met David yesterday.” Twyla leans back against the display case, coffee in hand. “He looked super imposing at first, but he’s actually really nice. He said you told him to stop in.”

Patrick nods, smiling, “Well, you are the one who supplies most of our food, which he loves, so it was only a matter of time.”

Twyla hums around her cup. “He bought two cinnamon buns, a raspberry tart and a loaf of sourdough.” 

That’s David, he thinks, and the sentiment is oddly comforting.

“He kind of...seems like he’s searching for something,” Twyla says then, cutting through Patrick’s thoughts. “I mean, at first I thought that maybe he was a bit particular? Like, maybe we didn’t carry anything he liked.” Patrick laughs, a finger tapping on the counter. Twyla’s right about ‘particular.’ “And then, for a second, I thought that he was a little turned off by the fact that I was blasting Dean Martin. But I think he’s just looking for something with purpose.” 

“Oh.” It’s all he’s able to get out. It's quite the statement but said it with a whole lot of nonchalance. 

In the time he’s taken to get to know David, Patrick is certain he would be sensitive to hearing such a declaration from someone he barely spoke to. Even if it is Twyla, the insightful, bubbly person she is. 

But David’s still prickly. Secretly, Patrick hopes she doesn’t say anything to him about it. He’d rather not see the poor guy run for the hills. Or, in this case, the house he’s currently renting.

“I think he might be,” Patrick suddenly hears himself saying, and his brain kind of halts for a second. Why did he say that? He shakes himself, blinking and probably giving Twyla a bit of a mixed signal. “David’s not used to people being so kind.”

“Not to pride myself,” Twyla replies with a roll of her shoulders, “but I did get a little smile out of him. I’ll call that a win.” 

“Rightfully so.” He takes the boxes in his arms, one stacked atop the other. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Thanks for your help, Patrick! And if you see David, tell him I say hello!”

Patrick ducks through the rain as it starts to come down, securing everything in the backseat of his car before making the quick drive back to the café. The lights are on when he gets there, and through the big front windows he can see Stevie sleepily meandering behind the counter as she gets set up for the morning rush.

**

The rain is coming down sideways at this point, hitting heavily against the windows. They rattle with the wind, and a loud clap of thunder makes him jump from his spot on the couch. Patrick folds his book shut. It’s going to be a long night.

He rummages around in the apartment for the camper lights his dad gave him years ago for black outs. They’re battery-operated and very bright; he keeps two in the house, two downstairs, and one in the car. Patrick sets those out along with matches and a few candles just to be safe. It’s when he’s satisfied he has everything under control that his phone dings and he subconsciously throws all of his plans out the window.

David Rose  
  
**Today** 8:35 PM  
um hi. that thunder.  
  
what are the odds this place has a generator?  
  


Patrick can’t help but laugh, tapping out a reply. 

Considering I’ve never stepped foot in that house?  
  
k you’re no help.  
  
the power went out and i can’t find any candles.  
  
seriously i’m just using the flashlight on my phone.  
  


He taps the call button not two seconds after David’s last text comes through.

“Hi,” David says upon picking up, voice lilted in question. 

“Would you like to stay here tonight? I have lights and plenty of wine.”

David huffs. “You don’t have to do that,” he says. “Also, I don’t have a car.”

“I’ll come get you,” he decides. 

“The roads over here are really dark. And what if a tree fell on your car on the way here? I’d be blaming myself!”

“It’s less than ten minutes,” Patrick replies with gentle reassurance. “My couch is very comfortable. Pack a bag, I’ll be there soon.”

“Patrick—”

“David.” He’s already pulling on his raincoat. “Don’t hurt yourself.” 

“I should be saying that to you!” David exclaims, but Patrick only laughs him off.

“I’ll be there soon.” 

“Fine. You’re too nice to me.” 

“It’s a gift.” He hangs up with that final dignification.

**

The downpour only gets heavier the longer he drives and David’s right, the roads are dark. Patrick flicked on his brights the second he turned onto the winding, tree-lined street leading up to the house. He’s driven past a handful of times, but he’s never been inside one of the towering homes up here. Far too expensive, owned by old money and definitely not by anyone even close to his age.

He pulls into a pebble driveway with a slight dip. The headlights flood against the brown siding and the bushes framing either side of the front door. Patrick thinks about beeping just to see the harried expression David might be wearing but opts against it, instead turning his car off and jogging up to the house. 

He pounds twice on the door before it opens. David is in fact harried, completely bundled up in the fluffiest sweater Patrick’s ever seen him wear and the flashlight on his phone casting weird shadows on his face.

“Hey, come in for a second. I’m almost ready.”

Patrick toes off his shoes at the door, turns his own phone light on, and is immediately hit with the scent of knotty pine and teak. The house is warm, both atmospherically and literally, with high ceilings and large windows. Even the walls are wood-paneled, save for the one with the fireplace. 

“This is nice,” he muses, looking around in awe. His mother is going to want every detail about this place — if he tells her. 

“Yeah, it’s definitely cozy,” David calls from where he’s disappeared up the stairs. His voice is quite the contrast from the increasing winds outside. “I’m just...trying to find this last thing.”

“Take your time,” Patrick calls back, “I’ll be here.” 

His gaze shifts to the windows lining the wall of the open-plan living room, and though it’s dark, Patrick can make out the sound beneath the house. The building really does tower over everything, he notes, the street lamps a solid mile across the water glistening in the night. 

A deck extends from the sliding glass door Patrick’s practically pressed up against, soaked with rain water. If this were his home, he’d sit there or at the edge of the dock every morning watching the sun make its way over the town. 

The thudding of descending footsteps on the staircase pulls him from his little daydream, and Patrick spins to find David carrying a large duffel bag. “I’m all set,” he announces with a soft grunt. 

Patrick slides his shoes back on and follows David out, but the second he hits the front stoop he stops short. 

“Oh...wow.” 

“That can’t be safe,” David murmurs. 

It’s impossible to see even three feet in front of them now. Patrick’s car might as well be fading away slowly because he can barely make it out through the rain. 

He sighs, defeated. “I don’t think I can drive in this.”

“I wouldn’t let you,” David agrees. “We’ll just have to deal without power tonight. There’s a spare room, and extra blankets somewhere. Come on.” He unlocks the door and holds it open for Patrick, who puts up a finger.

“I have a lantern in my car, hang on.”

“You have a—Patrick!”

Within seconds, Patrick is soaked through. He stumbles through the front door sputtering, triumphantly brandishing a large camping light. “Always come prepared.” It’s passed off to David as he shucks his coat and shoes.

“You’re such a Boy Scout,” David snickers. “You don’t wear contacts or anything, right? Because I got lasik done about six years ago and I don’t have any of that stuff.”

“Nope, twenty-twenty vision.” 

David gives him a look, though it’s hard to make out. “Lucky.” 

He shows Patrick to the spare room just off the main area and supplies him with an extra quilt and pillow from the closet. The bed is a bit stiff and lumpy when he sits on it, but it’s a bed nonetheless so Patrick can’t really complain. He’s mentally patting himself on the back for the joggers he’s wearing, too. He’s slept in jeans before in a pinch, and this is a much better scenario.

“I know this wasn’t exactly how you thought your night would go,” David says when Patrick comes back into the living room. He waves a bottle around, two glasses in his other hand. “But I do have red wine. And we can get a fire going if you’d like. More light and, uh, whatever.” Patrick can hear the tight swallow tailing the sentence.

“Okay,” he smiles, sincerely grateful that it’s too dark for David to see the heat on his cheeks.

Flames are roaring behind a metal screen not long after. David is gathered up in a blanket and has swaddled himself within it, the dark red in his glass shimmering from the hot orange light. Patrick tips his head back just enough for the wine to bob against his lips. 

Neither of them speak for quite some time. It’s nice, comfortable, the kind of silence between them; Patrick isn’t digging for a conversation starter and though he’s sitting lounged in an armchair because David’s hogged the sofa, to an outsider this might seem a little...romantic.

It sends a zing up his spine, the thought. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind he can hear Stevie laughing at him. Which...that’s terrifying.

They’re just two people enjoying each other’s company. There’s nothing wrong with that.

“Popcorn,” David states at random. “I have a bag somewhere.” He unceremoniously kicks the blanket off himself and trods into the kitchen, taking his phone as a light.

David hisses within seconds of walking away as he hits something in his path — “Fucking chair.” Patrick snorts into his wine, his laugh muffled by the glass. 

He scans the room as he waits; he’ll be able to make everything out better in the morning once there’s sunlight, but for now Patrick can see vignettes of pieces throughout it. Framed artwork, books lined on a shelf over the fireplace, a basket of more blankets beside the iron poker stand. This place has the look and feel of a ski lodge; even the smell of the wood contributes to the facade.

There’s a large pad on the coffee table that Patrick immediately recognizes as David’s sketchbook. Curiosity gets the best of him, and he eases it open to the first few pages to see a sketch of the sound from the edge of the dock; sailboats, paddle boarders, kayaks, all drawn out in varying shades of grey and black.

“Here.” David thrusts a bowl of popcorn under his nose, a light and salty smell nearly accosting his senses.

“O-oh!” Patrick scrambles away from the book, the cover flipping closed as he sits back. “Thank you.”

“You can keep looking,” David says. He sets his bowl down and walks away to the kitchen table. There’s some light shuffling as he says, “Here, come here.”

Patrick eyes him, “What’s this?”

David slides a heavy page over. “It’s nothing,” he deflects with his gaze averted to his nail beds. “Really.”

Repositioning it so it’s closer to the light, he sees a beautifully detailed sketch of the Brew’s storefront. Precise lines of black ink frame the building’s bones, edges, the windows, and all its intricacies. David must have set everything together with grey watercolor, if the shadowy splotches and purposeful brushstrokes are anything to go by.

Patrick isn’t one to be moved by artwork; he appreciates it and always has, but he’s never once been someone to stare at a painting in a museum and get hit with a wave of emotion. But this is different, because this is his home. And it’s even more personal because it’s David’s finished product. He’s choked up looking at it, minimal colors and all.

“David, I…” Patrick sniffs. “I don’t know what to say, it’s…”

“Like I said, it’s nothing.” He waves Patrick off, but he’s hiding that little smile between his teeth like he so often does.

“No it’s not. David, this is beautiful,” he whispers. “You’re so talented.”

David ducks his head. “Thank you. I just, uh, thought you’d like to see it.”

“I love it.” He smiles at him, eyes trained on David until he finally, finally meets his gaze. “Thank you for showing me.” He marvels at the piece once more. It’s so well-detailed that David even managed to get that thick chip in the door frame, and the sign is a near-perfect match.

Patrick sets a hand on David’s shoulder and squeezes. “Don’t hate me for this,” he says, almost internally, and pulls him in for a hug. 

The response is delayed at first, David going rigid before adjusting himself accordingly. He hooks his chin over Patrick’s shoulder and squeezes back, one hand running slowly down his spine. It’s nice. It feels good, like a warmth is enveloping Patrick in a way he can’t quite describe. David Rose’s hugs — this one hug that Patrick himself initiated at random — are decidedly a thing of wonder. 

He’s used to the other person’s arms landing somewhere around his back, not his shoulders. He isn’t exactly used to being hugged so tightly like this by someone taller. 

His father’s hugs are one thing, as are hugs from any of Patrick’s taller friends; their arms usually go diagonal and they’re quick, accompanied by a clap on the back. David hugs like he was designed to do so, his arms on a diagonal, too, but strong and steady.

That’s quite a thing to perceive of a friend. David’s intriguing and brilliantly talented, and he’s someone that Patrick really appreciates. It’s...it’s a lot. 

The moment stretches, but all too soon Patrick’s pulling back. He already misses the embrace. He allows a hand to linger on David’s bicep. “Why don’t you sell your work?”

“Oh, no.” He starts waving a hand about. “No, no, I’m not — it’s not that good.”

“Hey.” Patrick forces the lump down in his throat and looks at him earnestly. “I’m completely serious. You could sell a few of them at the café. Hang them up, price them accordingly.”

“I can assure you they’re not worth that much.” David sounds wary. “No one wants amateur local artwork.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Patrick counters. “You’d be surprised about what people are into. And there’s no way this,” he waves the sketch around, “can be considered ameteur.” 

“I ran a gallery,” David half-scoffs, “in Manhattan. I know what people are into.”

“Just think about it,” he pleads gently. “I won’t push you to do anything you don’t want to do. I would never do that to you, but I really think your art would be well-received.”

David inhales deeply, shoulders hunching up by his ears. “I will think about it.” 

“Okay.” Patrick considers that a success, one more brick coming down from David’s high walls.

As the night carries on with the storm, the firelight slowly dying down, Patrick observes David in this comfortable glory. The glow of the fire makes him golden as he laughs with his eyes shut tight and crinkled at the corners. His full-bodied laughs are on display in a way that Patrick’s never seen from this man before. He’s loose and smiling, and maybe it’s helped a little by the wine, but Patrick never wants that smile to go away.

David deserves to be seen for who he is: a compassionate person with a good heart and so much to show for it.

**

So much for the lumpy bed.

Patrick wakes to the sunlight spilling in through the glass across the room. He stretches, back popping, and is immediately made aware of the kink in his neck. He fell asleep in the armchair last night. 

David’s splayed out on the sofa, fast asleep with a mound of blankets over him. Patrick laughs silently, checking his phone. The battery is nearly drained, and there are no missed calls or messages. Just the time staring back at him; seven-thirty. 

Stevie’s opening, so he can take his time.

The surface light above the stove is on, so the power’s back, and peering outside at his car in the driveway there aren’t any damages. Just a smattering of wet leaves stuck to the windshield.

Patrick digs through the cabinets for tea and switches the electric kettle on. He chuckles, remembering David’s initial comment about the house’s lack of amenities. He sets out two cups and figures that making breakfast can be his thanks for David letting him spontaneously stay the night. 

By the time David stirs awake — Patrick kicks himself for any noise he made — he has two plates of eggs and toast set on the counter.

“It’s a crime for me to be up this early,” David grumbles as he walks in, his hair sticking up from where it was pressed against the pillows. He yawns and rubs at his eyes. “What’s all this?”

“Breakfast,” Patrick announces. “It’s the least I can do.”

David’s face changes multiple times, from tired to something soft. He takes a plate. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

“I’ll just clean when we’re finished and get out of your hair. That way you can have the place to yourself.”

“No, I’ll clean. You did all of this. Please, it’s fine.” 

Patrick goes to argue, but sighs. “Compromise. Two heads are better than one, or four hands are better than two in this instance,” he says, and David’s eyebrows raise astonishingly high. Patrick catches on to where David’s mind has wandered off and shoves the sentiment away immediately. 

“That’s a compromise I can get behind,” he says, shoveling eggs into his mouth, “and I don’t do that very often.”

“That calls for a toast then. Cheers.” Patrick raises his mug and David scrambles for his own before tapping them together. 

“Cheers.” 

The kitchen is cleaned in record time, and Patrick discovers that David is (unsurprisingly) very organized. Or tidy, at least. Everything has a spot, as it should, and although he may seem a bit flighty, David is incredibly meticulous.

“I had a cleaning lady come weekly when I lived in New York,” David reminisces while scrubbing a pan, “and we had a bunch of rotating maids growing up. And chefs. It was a big house.” He makes a face and sets the pan on a towel to dry. “My mother had, like, two or three assistants at a time for all of her wigs and whatever. All specially trained, even me.”

It occurs to Patrick how weird of a statement that is for just a moment until he remembers the tabloids he saw in the grocery store growing up. Moira Rose did in fact wear wigs proudly, as though they were a part of who she was. Patrick supposes they are.

“That must sound weird,” David says then, leaning against the sink.

“I mean sure, but only because the David I know seems so different from the David before. It seems kind of detached. I can’t see you in a giant house or surrounded with...help.”

He presses his lips into a thin line and hums. “Very different from your upbringing, I’m sure.”

“No, we had an army’s worth of cleaning ladies and chefs,” Patrick teases, and David finally loosens up again. “My parents and I did everything together, actually. Made dinner together at least once a week. My family came over a lot.”

“Sounds cozy,” David says.

Patrick tilts his head. “Usually. It was definitely a busy house despite it being just three of us. Lots and lots of relatives.”

“Yeah, well, my folks were always out doing something or flying somewhere. And Alexis and I normally wanted nothing to do with each other. She had her group of friends, and I had mine.” He swallows hard. “I don’t completely resent it, because it made me who I am now, but…”

David shrugs heavily, eyes focusing on a high spot in the distance. Patrick leaves it at that but still offers up a look of encouragement. 

“You’re your own person, David,” he states simply. “Thank you again for letting me stay the night.” Patrick claps him on the shoulder once and goes to gather his few things from the living room. 

David follows suit to rearrange the cushions and fold the blankets back up again. 

“Are you coming by later?” Patrick asks, his hand on the handle of the front door.

“Probably,” David says. “I have two friends there, so.”

“Aw, so me and Stevie?”

“Actually Stevie and that old lady who always gets two cups of lemon ginger tea and reads the paper.” David flashes him a grin. “I’ll see you later.”

“Good.” 

Patrick is halfway out the door when David stops him. “Hey.”

Patrick turns around. David is just a few feet away, twisting his rings about. For a moment — a long, charged moment — Patrick feels a bit like he’s floating, almost as if he’s out of control. David looks at him in a way he can’t quite describe, and he doesn’t miss the way he prolongs his thoughts, his jaw off to one side.

“Thank you,” David finally says. “For seeing me as an actual person. It, uh...it means a lot, Patrick.”

That’s enough to anchor him. The air settles, but there’s still a light crackle to it. Patrick nods, “Of course. I’ll see you later.”

**

He showers and changes into something a little more professional in time to relieve Stevie for lunch. 

“Some storm last night, huh,” Stevie comments when he walks in. “There was a huge branch down on Main this morning, but that’s all I saw.”

Patrick ties his apron, nodding vacantly. “Yep.”

“Did you lose power?” She asks, grabbing a filled bus bin and carrying it into the back.

“Ah...no. No, I didn’t.” He clears his throat. “I wasn’t actually home last night?”

Stevie comes back, wiping her hands on her apron. “Oh. Did you stay with your parents?”

Apparently he hesitates for too long, because there’s quite the gleam in Stevie’s eye. “Wait...Where were you?” She bounces a little, lips curling into a mischievous grin.

Patrick starts fiddling with the espresso machine, tapping random buttons until it starts a quick cleaning cycle. “I stayed at David’s.”

“Oh my god, you stayed at David’s? Like with David? Did you two finally hook up?” She’s actually leaning on the counter, sliding toward him on her elbows. “Tell me everything!”

“No, I didn’t sleep with him!” He feels kind of childish. “And what do you mean by finally?”

“Jesus, you two are fucking blind,” Stevie mumbles dejectedly. She stands upright, walking over to the pastry case with a pair of tongs in hand. “He likes you,” she says as she restocks the miniature loaves of banana bread. “You do know that, right?” 

“Sure.” It comes out as a half-snort. “Of course he does.”

Stevie’s giving him one of her flat looks when he glances at her. “Seriously?”

“What?” He puts his hands up defensively.

“We hang out a lot, you know that. He might have been a loud, babbling drunk when he said it and I might have been shitfaced, but David was talking about you a lot.” She sets the tongs down and, much softer, says, “He likes you, Patrick. And you’re blushing,” she points at him, “so that just means you like him, too.”

He instinctively brings his hands to his cheeks, mouth slightly agape. That needs to stop happening.

“Deny it all you want, Brewer,” she croons, “but you know I’m right.” With that, Stevie raises one eyebrow and walks away, leaving Patrick red-faced and a little too warm. 

Maybe she was right. Patrick won’t be saying that out loud, but she definitely is. At least about himself.

**

It’s nearly a week later when David comes into the café and hands Patrick the sketch in a dark wood frame, his lips hidden between his teeth.

“You’re giving this to me?” Patrick asks, surprised. He’s moved, really he is. 

“You’ve convinced me,” is David’s reply, and before Patrick can question him further, he adds, “I’ve thought about it, and I have decided to take you up on your offer. I’ll start selling my art here, but we’re only starting off with five pieces.”

Patrick beams at him. It’s nearly cheek-splitting. “Seriously? David!” He presses his hands together excitedly. “Everything I said still stands; I won’t take any revenue, it’s all you. Okay?”

“Are you sure? I mean, it’s your space,” David argues.

“I’m absolutely sure. People should see your art, David. You have a gift. Don’t hide it from the rest of the world.”

As truthful of a statement that might be — and as sentimental as it might be — part of him enjoys seeing David squirm at the sappy compliment. Rightfully so, he tilts his head back with a whine.

“Five pieces,” David reiterates,” and then we’ll see from there.”

They shake on it.

**

David’s pieces sell out within two days. When Patrick tells him, his jaw nearly hits the floor.

“You’re kidding.”

“I most certainly am not kidding.” Patrick presses his hands into the counter. David’s got a death-grip on his mug, and Patrick’s afraid it might shatter. There’s an envelope of money between them. “My mom bought one, too.”

“Your mother is a saint,” David states simply.

“She has her moments.”

“I bought one, too.” Stevie steps out from the back with a bag of coffee beans in her arms, nearly tipping over. She sets it down with a grunt. “I was going to just steal it, but I figured that wouldn’t be fair.” 

“You’re right, it wouldn’t,” David replies, cocking his head to the side. “Which one did you get?”

She digs in her bag under the counter until she’s brandishing an eight-by-eight frame. “This one,” she says. It’s of a hand holding a glass of wine, not manicured or particularly elegant by any means, but it’s still beautiful. The glass is tilted, the wine slanted to match its angle and nearly spilling its contents over the lip. “It’s nice.”

“It’s nice,” David repeats as if testing the words, and Patrick chuckles.

“Listen, I’m not exactly poetic,” Stevie reasons. She sets the frame down, returning to her task at hand. “Don’t judge me.”

“So, what do you think?” Patrick turns back to him. “You’ll sell more?” He’s eager to see more of David’s work on display. Really, he spent a long time trying to memorize the details of each piece he had decided to sell.

“A few more,” he agrees. “I don’t want to get my hopes up.”

Patrick nods, “I completely understand. I’d hate to see you burn out.”

In the following days, David pulls together ten or so more sketches of varying sizes to hang up, all with the same medium and color scheme.

Patrick realizes rather quickly exactly how good of a salesman David really is; he spent one morning humoring a customer about one piece before she wound up buying two. She even asked him to sign them, which caused David to hesitate momentarily before obliging.

And David spends a lot of time studying, it seems. For one, he focuses on hands as well as recognizable landmarks in town. Patrick picks out the town hall, an old worn-brick building with a short clocktower, the storefronts of the diner, Weston’s Florals (Patrick snatched that one up for his mother), and the bakery. And, of course, various pieces highlighting the sound itself. 

But hands are evidently one of his favorite things to focus on. Patrick picks out a pair that are definitely Twyla’s, freckled with thin, dexterous fingers as she kneads at a mound of dough. Stevie’s, too, holding a joint between two fingers, flipping the bird with another. Patrick debates on the ethics of hanging that one, but it barely stays up before Stevie buys it, anyway. 

There’s one study of strong hands wrapped around a mug, prominently-veined, blunt-nailed and beautiful; they’re Patrick’s, passing a drink to someone across the countertop. But it’s not the only one — Patrick isn’t sure how David managed to capture the other so well, it probably just involved a lot of staring, but there’s a piece of him holding a pen, presumably going through his ledger. He’s even wearing those red rubber thimbles David and Stevie make fun of him for. 

That one (all of them, really) makes him smile. 

And then there’s one pair he can’t quite place. A woman’s, definitely, adorned in rings and jangly bracelets. Her wrists are flimsy and bent downward with her fingers fanned out. Expressive, Patrick decides. Can hands be expressive? Or paintings of hands? He supposes they can be.

“That’s my sister,” David clarifies to him, though Patrick hadn’t asked. “I mean it’s not actually Alexis, they’re her hands, but you know what I mean.”

One set, however, is Patrick’s favorite. And if it wasn’t weird he would buy it in a heartbeat.

They’re David’s, strong and beautiful. His rings are a dead giveaway, if anything, with his hands balled into fists, pressed pinkie to thumb and facing upwards like he does sometimes. The hair is drawn in quick, short strokes, the rings painted a diluted grey in respect for the silver.

If Patrick thinks of David’s hands a little more after that then, well, no one has to know.

**

“Okay. Run this by me again.” Stevie has her arms crossed over her chest as she leans against a table. She shoots Patrick a perplexed look as he walks back in front of her with his arms out and takes a spin.

“We have enough open space to put a small stage right here.” Patrick points to the far corner of the café where it’s easy enough to remove the tables and chairs. “Just a platform. I think my dad still has some portable speakers we can use, too. And I’ll have to look into the permits, get some flyers going.” He sets his hands on his hips, beaming at his vision with pride, and turns back to Stevie. “What do you think?”

Her lips curl wolfishly. “Does this mean you’re breaking out the guitar again? Patrick, it’s been years.”

She’s right. The last time Patrick played his guitar publicly was in a crowded Toronto bar on a night out when Stevie was visiting him and Rachel. A few beers and one Jackson Browne song later, he was riding high on adrenaline. Live performances have always been few and far between for him, and they’re pretty much at the back of his mind now that his main focus is the Brew. He only picks up his six-string in private now, plucking for inspiration in his downtime.

“I’m sorry, you play guitar?”

Patrick whips around to find David standing in the open doorway as if he was carried in with the early summer breeze. “That I do,” he replies cheerily.

David actually winces. “Like...in public? In front of people?”

“Not for a while, but I used to when I was in high school.” Patrick furrows his brow. “Why? Is there something wrong with that?”

“I believe the term you’re looking for is ‘incorrect,” Stevie stage-whispers, and they exchange a look of delight at David’s glare.

“It just—It sounded like you guys were talking about doing live performances—”

“An open mic night,” Stevie butts in.

“An open mic night…” David tenses as he says it, as if the words are acrid in his mouth. His fists clench as he lets out a short laugh. “I was afraid you were being serious.”

Patrick stares at him for a moment, truly bemused and very much enjoying his friend’s discontent. “I am being serious,” he confirms, and David repeats the laugh. “What do you think? Fun, right?”

“I think it’s ridiculous,” is his honest answer.

“David. It’s really not that bad. Open mics can be a lot of fun.”

“No, locking up early and keeping normal hours is fun,” he counters. “Or even drinking after closing when it’s just you and Stevie. Or me, you, and Stevie.”

Stevie perks up at that. “Patrick, should we serve wine? You mentioned it once, and I think David’s going to need it.”

“That’s not what I’m insinuating.” David finally steps fully into the café, closing the door behind him with a dignified click. “It’s just that open mics can be very cringey,” he explains, and the face he makes is almost reminiscent of a cartoon character. “Think about it! Being sung at by someone is very awkward. Like, when it’s your birthday and the servers at a restaurant sing to you. Doesn’t that make you want to crawl under a table?”

Stevie lets out a hollow breath, making Patrick turn to exchange yet another look with her, his eyes wide. “Not normally,” he replies slowly. “Listen, we’re gonna do it. I’m going to work on everything after closing today and see what permits we actually need to get. It’ll be fine. More than fine, it’ll be fun.” He ignores David’s wince. “I would love for you to be here and see how great of a time it can be.” Patrick steps forward to rub David’s arms comfortingly, though the other man is refusing to meet his gaze. “What if we displayed some of your art that night, too? That way you get something out of the whole thing, not just second-hand embarrassment.”

David squints, “That just means I’m obligated to come.”

“It’ll be fun,” Patrick reiterates once again. “I promise.”

“And if it’s not?” David folds in on himself, arms crossed, and Patrick can’t help but smile softly.

“Then we’ll figure it out and you can show me what fun is. Okay?”

David gives him a once over. “Fine,” he gets out, “as long as you’re not singing.”

“Why wouldn’t I be singing?” Patrick asks tentatively, and when he doesn’t respond he adds, “I’m the host, it’s kind of tradition.”

“Oh my god…”

“You’ll be fine. I wouldn’t lie to you.” He can feel David tense up again under his hands, but he finally nods, albeit stiffly. Patrick will just have to take that as a win.

“No poetry though.”

“That, unfortunately, is not something I can guarantee.”

“Hey,” Stevie pipes up again, scrunching up her nose. “He could play the kazoo or something equally as weird.”

David holds a finger up to her. “Don’t. I will burn this place down.”

**

Everything’s set in stone by the end of the week, and the following Tuesday has Patrick and Stevie hanging up string lights in preparation for seven that evening. David joins them with a box of his sketches, hanging them up throughout the café. 

It’s a really good turnout; Twyla signs up with her own guitar and Patrick’s suddenly made aware that she still sings. She was more of a theatre kid than he was in high school, doing nearly every single show imaginable while he had to work around his baseball and hockey schedules each season. His chest swells a bit as he remembers his old friend’s sweet voice. 

The sound is great, the sets are great, and Patrick only sees David shrink twice the whole night from where he hovers by his pieces. When Patrick steps on stage at the end of the night, nerves coiling deep in his belly, he winks at David. After a few words in thanks for the turnout, he strums right into a José González tune and immediately his nervousness melts away.

He ends shakily, happily, and applause breaks out through the audience. Stevie’s teary — though she’ll never admit it — and David is shaking his head as he claps along with everyone else. 

“What’d you think?” He walks over to him with his hands shoved deep into his front pockets, neck warming. 

“Had you lead with the fact that you have a very lovely voice, I would have been less turned off by this whole thing.” David shrugs, his smile lopsided.

“So you liked it?” Patrick asks hopefully, 

“You have a beautiful voice and...I might have teared up a bit.” His teeth drag over his bottom lip. “But don’t tell anyone.”

“Your secret is safe with me, David, don’t worry.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs, then he suddenly straightens to his full height. “I promised Twyla I’d talk to her about my pieces, so…”

“Go ahead,” Patrick encourages, pushing him toward where Twyla is looking at what’s on display. “I’ll still be here when you’re done.”

“Okay. Thanks for proving me wrong.”

“Thank you for coming tonight. Hopefully you’ll be here for the next one.” 

“Only if you sing next time, too,” David says. Patrick vehemently ignores the swoop in his stomach. 

“Sounds like a plan,” he smiles.

Patrick makes his rounds, chatting happily with the several performers of the evening until Stevie hip-checks him. 

“Heart eyes,” she sings through the corner of her mouth, wine glass pressed against her lips.

He blushes. “What are you talking about?”

“David.” It’s coy, the way she says it as she downs the rest of her wine. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Patrick repeats flatly.

Stevie puts a hand up defensively, “I mean it.”

“Whatever you say, Stevie,” he attempts to deflect, walking away with a shake of his head. He ignores her teasing comments in favor of gathering the empty glasses and mugs and carrying them to a bus bin.

Patrick’s neck is still a little hot — he chalks it up to performance anxiety — as he cleans. 

**

It’s near closing when David comes in for the day, not that Patrick was thinking about it. David doesn’t work at the Brew, he isn’t obligated to be here every day. He just decides to.

Nevertheless, Patrick beams when he walks in. “I was worried you found a new spot,” he chimes, already grabbing a to-go cup.

“Oh. I’m here for Stevie actually?” David clasps his hands together, and Patrick pretends that doesn’t prick some minor jealousy within him.

“So no coffee then?”

David shakes his head. “Maybe a tea?”

“Sure.” He plucks a bag from the box, filling the cup with scalding water. Stevie comes in from the back with her bag slung over her shoulder, waving at David.

“Alright,” she announces, “I’m out.”

“You’re out?” Patrick looks at her with minor surprise. “Where are you going?”

“David is making me drive him to the mall, and then I’ll be drinking a bottle of wine as he subjects me to yet another Julia Stiles film.”

“M’kay, when you put it that way, you make it sound terrible.” David makes a face at her. “And you’ll be sharing that wine, thanks.”

“Uh-huh, we’ll see.” Stevie turns to Patrick, her brows raised knowingly. “You’re more than welcome to join us, but I’m sure it’s not your forte.”

He wants to say yes, is the thing, just so he has an excuse to see David for more than a few short minutes. But Patrick isn’t selfish and he doesn’t want to intrude on their festivities, so he shakes his head.

“Someone has to close,” he reasons as he sets a lid on David’s cup. “Besides, I promised my dad I’d go to his game tonight, then it’s dinner with the folks after.”

She looks at him questioningly. “I thought the season was over.”

“Travel ball,” he clarifies. “He can’t sit still.”

“That sounds like someone we know,” David chimes in with a smirk. Patrick bites at his bottom lip, raising his shoulders.

“It runs in the family,” Stevie whispers. “I’ve heard his mom joke about tying them both to chairs to get them to relax for five minutes. Anyway.” She smacks David’s arm. “C’mon. I’ll leave without you.”

“David, if Stevie says anything weird when she’s drunk, just ignore her.”

“I’ve been both drunk and high with her before.” His eyes glint a little. “I’ve heard my fair share.”

Patrick still points at them in warning and they’re off, Stevie shoving David out the door with a swear under her breath. It shuts heavily, the bell jingling out and suddenly Patrick is alone. He goes through the motions cleaning the tiled floors, upturning the chairs and putting everything away for the evening.

He pops upstairs to change out of his button-down before driving over to the baseball field. He finds his dad leaning against the dugout with a clipboard in hand.The game is well underway with the home team at bat. They wave to one another briefly, his dad’s attention drawn back to the team.

A sharp smack of hard ball colliding with metal takes his focus, and surely enough Patrick watches the ball shoot out into left field, passing the outfielder by a long shot. He whistles loudly as the two kids on base run home, his father’s cheers nearly rivaling the volume.

In the end, Mistmill beats the away team eight to three.

“Good game,” he says as he’s pulled in for a hug by his dad.

“With that, we’re officially best in the league.” His dad smiles pridefully.

Patrick might get his competitive side from his mother, but that doesn’t mean his father isn’t competitive as well. “Wanna grab a beer before heading home? My treat.”

“Only if you help me bring some of this stuff to the car.” He gestures at the equipment around him. 

They don’t go to Jake’s — because that would just be a terrible idea. The last thing Patrick needs is his own father seeing Jake flirt with him. The idea nearly sends a chill down his spine.

They head to a sports bar across town, already bumbling with the early evening crowd. He orders two pilsners and carries them over to where his father has found a high-top table on the patio.

“How’s the Brew?” His dad asks, clinking the neck of his bottle against Patrick’s.

“It’s good,” he says, “Great, even. We pick up a bit in the summer, you know that.” 

“That’s true.” He takes a long sip. “Your mother told me about David.”

Patrick chuckles, “She’s met him once. What’s there for her to tell?”

“She’s your mother, you know how she gets.”

“Right, but what did she say?”

“That he’s handsome,” he starts, and Patrick laughs again, “and that he seems a little lonely. But I’m not sure how lonely he could really be if he has you as a friend. You are friends, right?”

“Yes we are.” Patrick toys with the peeling label on his bottle. “He’s a really good guy.”

His father hums. “She also said that she just wanted to give him a hug.”

“Well she does give really good hugs,” he says with a tilt of his head. “David would be lucky to get one from her, although he’d probably be a little averse to it.” His father is reading him; Patrick can tell just by the silent, encouraging expression. So he breaks a little. “He’s a really good guy,” he says again, “and he’s really talented.”

He tells his father the bare bones about David’s family; he’s of the Rose family and is nothing like an old tabloid might have once made him out to be. 

“He’s one of a kind,” Patrick explains at one point, his beer nearly empty. He’d flag down the bartender for another, but he’s too engrossed in his storytelling. “He wears sweaters in the summer, which I don’t quite get but I have a feeling David would say something about fashion statements and being put together, so. He comes in almost every single day, Stevie likes him, Twyla likes him, and the regulars even like him. And he likes them. David was so closed-off when we first met, but I think he just really needed a friend.” He lets out a little sigh, his elbows digging into the table.

“You seem to really like him.”

“Of course I do. He’s my friend.”

“Right, but....” His father sets his beer down to clasp his hands together. “Son, the way you talk about him...If you could just see your face—” He laughs a little, then. “I’m not very good at this sort of thing,” he explains, pushing the sleeves of his jersey back up. “I count myself very lucky that your mother ever said yes to someone as uncharismatic as I am when it comes to, uh, romance and things.”

Patrick laughs lightly, remembering the butchered attempt at a talk his father tried to give him the summer before high school. Something about dating and girls and sex that he could barely get out before clapping him on the shoulder and saying, “You’re smart. You’ll be fine.”

“But you were smiling the entire time you told me about him in a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen before,” Clint goes on to explain.

“I-I don’t know. He’s just in town for a little while. I’m sure he isn’t looking for anything, and who knows if we’ll even stay in touch when he leaves.” It’s a fail-safe explanation. At least slightly.

“There’s no harm in trying,” his father declares and for once, Patrick really doesn’t know what else to say. “If it’s any consolation, I like him quite a bit, too.” He puts a hand up. “I know I haven’t met him yet, but if he makes my son smile like that then I like him.”

Go big or go home, Patrick thinks. His father’s support — his parents’ support — is something he’s always known he’s had. But hearing it every so often makes everything a little clearer.

“I, uh, I think I do, too.” He nearly whispers it, and it’s as if it doesn’t even come from his own mouth. Patrick lets his lips quirk upward into something small, lets his stomach flip as he rotates his bottle on the lacquered tabletop. His father lays a supporting hand on his forearm, and that’s really all he needs, isn’t it?

“If you two were in your teens, I’d tell you to ask him to the festival next week, but you’re both adults. You’ll figure it out.”

“I guess you’re never too old for this kind of talk,” Patrick replies sheepishly. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Of course. Come on, let’s not keep your mother waiting.”

**

David comes stomping into the café one afternoon a few days later, huffing low in his throat. “I need something different today.” He lets his bag drop onto the floor beside his usual table. “I’m embittered.”

Patrick has to fight hard to bite back a laugh. “Sorry to hear that,” he manages, “I was hoping you’d be excited about our new special.” He points to the small board behind him.

“Caramel macchiato with...What the hell is that?” He exclaims. “Why is that up there?”

“I mean, you order it so often, I just figured other people would like the chance to try a coffee that’s basically the equivalent of melted ice cream.”

“M’kay, thanks.”

“And if it sells enough, I might just put it on the menu.” Patrick turns to admire his handiwork. “We’ll call it The David. Or The Rose.”

“Yeah, let’s not.” He waves a hand at him.

“Alright, well, if you’re so embittered, maybe a straight shot of espresso will help?”

David’s jaw goes uneven. “I’d rather drink raw sewage, thanks.”

“Okay, what about a dirty chai?” Patrick picks a mug up, spinning it in his hand. He’s already walking over to grab the tea sachet from the box.

“What makes it dirty?” To his amusement, David actually gives a little shoulder shimmy, which is something. 

Adorable. It’s adorable.

“The espresso. It’s not a very sweet drink because the spices give it a nice balance, so it’s a bit tamer than your usual concoction.”

David narrows his eyes. “I take great offense to that.”

“Understood,” Patrick gives him a curt nod. “Almond milk okay?” He holds up the metal frothing pitcher.

To his surprise — and once again his amusement — David actually looks wary. “I don’t know…”

“You don’t really stray too far from your usual.” It’s not a question. Patrick just starts making the drink, holding the pitcher up to the steamer. “The only other thing I’ve seen you have here besides the occasional tea is a mocha.”

“Yes, I am very set in my ways,” David declares with a little flourish, his hands balled into fists. A flash of that one piece comes to mind. “I have a comfort zone.”

The fact is, and it is entirely unrelated to coffee or similar things, but David claiming to have a sort of comfort zone does speak wonders. Patrick hasn’t seen David in much other than blacks, whites, and greys. Very occasionally there’s a pop of color. He hopes David doesn’t catch him eyeing his neutral-colored ensemble as he says softly, quietly, “I know you do.” He lets the frother go off, the sharp whirring echoing out. “You trust me, right?”

There’s a beat. “I do.” 

Patrick sets the mug in front of David with a proud smile. “Try it.”

He watches as David blows to cool the drink, slowly, slowly, and then sips it carefully. It’s stupid, really, but Patrick can’t take the anticipation. “What’s the verdict?”

David hums, “It’s good.”

He knocks a fist on the counter, his grin widening. It’s like he solved a puzzle he’s been working on for years. “I’m going to make you try new things, David Rose.” It sounds much more profound than Patrick had intended, but the message is still all the same.

“Okay,” David says tightly and gives his head a shake.

“So, why are you embittered?” Patrick asks to quickly change the subject. “If you’d like to share, that is.”

It’s unexpected, the way David so obviously teeters on the edge of a decision here. A game of will-he-won’t-he takes place as his eyes dart toward the ceiling. “My sister has informed me that she’s seeing some guy.”

“Some guy,” Patrick repeats, then winces, playing along. “Con artist?”

“Probably.” David falls into his usual seat heavily. “Apparently he’s a clean-cut nice guy she met at a mutual friend’s party in Toronto, but I don’t exactly buy it.”

“Ah.” Patrick takes a seat with him, tea in hand. “So a total loser then?”

“Most of the guys Alexis has dated have been utter train wrecks,” David goes on to explain. “She doesn’t exactly attract good guys. I don’t even think she knows the meaning of a ‘good guy.’ A shipping heir, a prince or something, several sketchy CEOs, I’m sure. Oh, and Sean Penn.”

Patrick chokes on his first sip. He covers his mouth to prevent any further spray of tea all over the table. “Sean Penn?”

“Yeah, don’t—don’t even ask.” David puts a hand up. “Point is, it’s only a matter of time before she gets caught up somewhere and needs me to come to her rescue. Again.”

“Maybe you should give her the benefit of the doubt.” He knows he said the wrong thing by the way David narrows his eyes at him.

“You don’t know Alexis,” he says brazenly. “She’ll go after any guy who looks at her the right way and has a heartbeat. I have the diary entries to prove it, and they are very dark.”

“I almost want to circle back to that last point,” Patrick replies slowly, assuming there’s more to those entries than David is letting on. But that’s neither here nor there, at least not in this moment. “You clearly care about her wellbeing.”

David scoffs, and it’s Patrick’s turn to give him a look. “David,” he urges, his tone easy as he reaches to rest a hand on his forearm. He doesn’t pull away. “Try new things. Baby steps. Instead of brushing her off and assuming history is only going to repeat itself, ask her about him.”

It takes less than three seconds for David to slump back against the bench with his head tipped back toward the ceiling. Patrick’s hand still rests on his arm as he speaks. “It’s just that she’s been doing so well! She got a degree, she found her calling. I’m just…” He lets out a long, exasperated breath.

“You’re worried,” Patrick finishes for him. “David, when was the last time you really spoke to Alexis? Had a genuine conversation with her that didn’t end in one of you hanging up on the other? Because by what you’ve told me, that seems to be your default method of communication.”

And, well, David goes quiet for a minute. Really quiet. His face falls and his brows angle upward as opposed to pinching together. He looks...well, Patrick thinks he looks kind of lost. Or dejected, maybe? “Runs in the family,” he eventually murmurs, not meeting Patrick’s eye.

He frowns, though he’s unsurprised by the response. “Just give her a call,” is his gentle encouragement. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

David shakes himself. “You say that now.”

“David.”

“Fine.” He rolls his shoulders back, “I’ll call her tonight.”

“Let me know how it goes?” It’s a big ask, Patrick knows this, but he cares about David. Of course he wants to know.

“Yeah.” That eases a smile out of him for the first time all morning. “I will.”

**

“So he sounds boring.”

Patrick’s phone is pressed between his ear and his shoulder later that night as he cracks open a bottle of wine. “Boring?” He asks, bemused. “How?”

“Well, for one, his name is Ted.” 

“David, it’s not nice to stereotype someone based on their name,” Patrick responds teasingly.

“Yeah, but Ted. In what world is that not boring?”

“Did you think I was boring when you first met me?”

There’s a beat. “No. I just needed coffee. Also, I didn’t know your name.”

“And when you did?”

“Ugh, not the point! He’s also a vet. And not, like, a veteran. A veterinarian. He works with animals, Patrick!”

“And this is a bad thing because…?”

“It’s not,” he hears David huff, “But it’s really out of Alexis’s usual range.”

“Okay?”

“She dates guys with a target on their back and money or drugs on the brain. Or sex, but it’s my sister so let’s park that conversation right there, thanks.” Patrick laughs down the line. “Anyway,” David breathes, “She sounds like she really likes him. Kept me on the phone for forty-five minutes, so that must mean something.”

“Good!” Patrick hopes his encouraging tone will ease David’s likely rigid composure. “Right?”

“I guess so. But I won’t know anything until I meet him. If I meet him,” he corrects himself. 

“It kind of sounds like you’re searching for something bad here, David,” Patrick says and sure, he gets it. David’s so used to a certain pattern with his sister. His defenses are obviously going to be high.

“I’m just keeping my fingers crossed,” David finally says.

“I’ll keep mine crossed, too.”

There’s a vacant hum in response. “What are you drinking? I heard a cork pop before.”

“I,” Patrick begins, looking at the label, “am drinking a bottle of Montepulciano.”

“Where the hell did you find that? I’m drinking grocery store Chardonnay!” David exclaims with rising exasperation, voice pitched.

“David, you do know there’s a liquor store just outside town, right?”

“There’s a what?”

Patrick can’t help it, he laughs heartily. Nearly three months here and the guy has never even graced Mistmill Liquor Plaza, let alone known about it. “I’ll drive you there, just tell me when.”

“I’ll certainly be taking you up on that offer because I don’t have a fucking car. I never renewed my license because I lived in a city and didn’t feel the need to, so I’ve just been walking everywhere these last few months.”

“Thank god it’s not winter,” he supplies.

“Soon enough, though, Patrick. And then I’ll be making you my personal chauffeur. I could always use the exercise but not in negative temperatures.”

“Can I wear one of those hats?”

There’s a noise that can only be described as a suppressed honk or something reminiscent of a foghorn from David’s end, though Patrick will never say that aloud. “Imagine? Hell no! If you do that or even show up wearing a suit — no matter how dashing you might look in a tailored tux — I will never hang out with you again.”

“Aw, David...we really are friends, huh?”

“By proximity alone, but don’t push it,” he jokes.

Patrick stretches out on the couch. “Oh, I beg to differ.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll just take Stevie’s excuse for a car,” David says then.

“Because she’ll totally be okay with that,” Patrick nods to himself, “of course. Speaking of, I’m surprised she hasn’t dragged you to the liquor store herself.”

“See, Stevie shows up with the booze then hogs it all for herself while I have to suffer drinking cheap supermarket wine that’s probably not even cooking grade.” David isn’t wrong. Stevie does, in fact, hold alcohol ransom.

“You poor thing. You’ll figure it out.” 

“Will I though?” 

“You will,” Patrick affirms, taking a long sip. “Do you want to come over? I’ll share.”

“Mh, nope. I’ve got a book and this sad, sad bottle that needs to be drained somehow. Even if it’s gross, it’s alcohol and I am not letting it go to waste.”

“Lovely to know where your priorities lie.” 

**

“You’re seriously in denial about this whole thing.” 

A damp rag comes sailing through the air and hits him in the face. “What?”

“About David.” Stevie catches the rag one-handed when Patrick throws it back at her. “He was just in here and your eyes were, like, huge.” She sets her hands on her hips, flannel shirt bunching up. “It’s either you’re in denial that you like him and he likes you or you’re both hopelessly oblivious—”

“—I do like him, Stevie—”

“—which I can’t help with—Wait.” She freezes, one hand up. “What?”

“I like David,” Patrick repeats. He’s grateful that the only patrons all have headphones in. God forbid Stevie starts yelling at him.

She doesn’t yell, but she does start wailing on him with the rag. “Good! Now are you going to take matters into your own hands and do something about it, or do I have to play the fucking matchmaker?”

“I’ll tell him,” he says, blocking her hits. “In time.”

Stevie finally stops, tossing the rag into the sink. “What are you so afraid of, Patrick?” When he goes to answer, she interjects, “If you say something like ‘he doesn’t like me back,’ you’re an idiot.”

“It’s not—I mean it’s a little bit of that,” he stammers, ignoring her glare, “but he’s not living here permanently. What’s the point of starting something if you know it has an expiration date?”

“That’s a bit cynical. But what if it doesn’t?”

Patrick just looks at her. 

“What’s wrong with trying? I know David’s only here for a few more months, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be something.”

“What, like long distance? Stevie, now we’re just getting ahead of things.”

“Holy fuck, Patrick!” She grabs his shoulders hard enough to leave little bruises. She shakes him once. “For once, please just try and do something good for yourself that doesn’t involve work.” She’s pleading, nearly. “Because if you don’t, I’ll lock you both in a room and I will not let you out until you—”

“Okay!” Patrick braces his hands on hers. “I’ll tell him, I just need to figure out how.”

“Good,” Stevie breathes. She lets go of him, finally, and bypasses him to restock the fridge up front. “Festival’s this weekend.”

“I know it is.” Patrick picks at his cuticle. “We’re too late to participate.”

“That wasn’t my point.” Her brows go high.

Carefully, Patrick sets his hands on the counter. It’s cool under his now-sweaty palms. “You want me to ask him to this thing like we’re teenagers?”

“Wouldn’t be a bad idea.” 

Stevie doesn’t say anything else after that, she just continues her restocking, grabs another box, and moves on to the shelves of coffee beans. The festival is in two days. He can give himself two days to ask David. It’s not that hard. Right?

**

Patrick does not ask him within two days.

Or, rather, he doesn’t ask David directly. Instead he does his usual Patrick Brewer meandering and encourages David to check it out with the promise of food, drink, and live music from an actual band.

“Who knows, I might even run into you there.”

“You think?” David asks teasingly, his head cocked to one side. 

“I mean, everyone in town goes. It’s a big event.” 

He spends a long time pacing before he meets up with Stevie. It’s warm out. He originally figured just a tee would suffice, but then his mind started racing about how it might get colder at night and now he’s just standing in his kitchen with a crew neck on.

Practical, predictable Patrick Brewer. 

And maybe the thought stings, just a bit. He likes who he is now (loves would be a stretch, since everyone has room to grow), but it had gotten to a point when he was younger that he started to despise being so predictable. He’s never spontaneous; everything needs a plan of action and a reason. Even, apparently, his shirts. 

He tugs at the hem uncomfortably. 

Stevie shoots him a text that she’s outside and he heads down, a pastry box in hand. She greets him with a wave and a heavy metal bottle.

“Whiskey,” she chimes when he questions it, and then she offers him a swig. It’s smooth, even a little rich.

“I hope they have more of this stuff this year.” Stevie gives the bottle a shake as they walk, the whiskey sloshing around inside it. “I’m down to my last bottle and I haven’t been out to Copperridge in a few months.”

Patrick takes another sip. A car of teenagers howling out the windows speeds past blasting some kind of techno. He shares a look with Stevie, one that says “We were never like that.” Their teenage summers were filled with late night bonfires, joints, and stolen booze, sure, but that was as wild as they got. No ragers, no breaking and entering.

He supposes that’s the upside of being so sensible. 

“Copperridge Reserve usually has a big setup.” Patrick turns back to Stevie now in order to displace his thoughts. He adjusts his grip on the box, keeping it level. “You should be able to buy your usual case and a half.”

She glares at him. “Don’t be jealous.”

“They know you by name at this point.”

“Patrick, that was one time! I got drunk, I sang their praises, and then I made out with three of their sales guys.”

“I think they’re called distillers,” he smirks. 

“Three distillers.” Stevie nods heavily. 

“In one night.” Patrick trips as Stevie shoves him forward, and they immediately start cackling. “Hey, I bet Jake will be there, y’know, ‘sampling whiskey.” He puts air quotes around the last two words, which earns him another shove and a growl from Stevie. 

“Okay,” she snatches the bottle from him, “the rest of this is mine.”

“Fine by me. I know where to get more.”

The park in the center of town is packed and bustling. The smells of grilled and fried foods waft through the air as a group of kids run past them through the gate toward the games. They’re cheap prizes all around, but the thrill is there.

“I’m going to stop by Weston’s and give these to my mom,” Patrick says with a thumb hitched over his shoulder. “I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”

The flower stall has a decent enough crowd around it, and Patrick finds his mother chatting idly with two older women. She catches his eye and beams, excusing herself immediately.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she greets with a kiss to his cheek.

He sets the box down on the table. “These are for you.” 

“Thank you, Patrick.” She wipes her hands on her apron before peeking inside. She lets out a noise of approval and turns to smile at her son. “Your father’s around here somewhere,” she says, gesturing to the crowd, “I think he met up with a few of his golf buddies.”

“At least he isn’t trying to work like the last few years,” Patrick says with a laugh. The dunk tank was hilarious, but the following year when he tried to help with organizing almost led to an intervention. 

She hums in the light way she does. “I saw David earlier.” 

“You did?” Patrick tries his best to play it cool, but his mother gives him one of those smiles and he knows he’s missed the mark. “He stopped by?”

“He did, that sweet boy,” she confirms, “He told me he was looking for you but decided to stop and say hello. David really is quite handsome, Patrick.” 

“Yeah,” he breathes. 

There’s a long moment between that and his mother speaking again where he just stares at the crowd in the distance. David’s there somewhere, and he’ll find him. 

“You know, I think he really likes you.” Patrick blinks at his mother. She looks at him knowingly, because of course she does. He can’t hide that sort of thing from her, no matter how hard he might try. “You were right, he needed a friend. But he had this look on his face…”

His mother sighs then, and takes his hands in her own. They’re warm, they’re always warm, and Patrick suddenly feels like a kid again because she’s doing what she always does before she encourages him to go after something. 

“Tell him, my sweet boy.” 

And, god, that’s all he needed to hear.

**

Patrick doesn’t find David for a solid hour and a half. He debates texting him, but he gets caught up in never ending conversations with old friends and his parents’ friends.

He’s on the verge of texting once more, minor annoyance prickling at his edges, when he spots the dark coiffed hair of his friend and the sweater he’s wearing; it’s orange and black and resembles flames, Patrick thinks. 

Nerves pool low in his stomach as he makes his way through the crowd to greet him. 

David’s holding an obnoxious fluorescent pink stuffed monkey far from his body in one hand and a small tote stamped with Sands and Family Bakery in the other. Stevie’s at his shoulder carrying an identical one.

“That’s definitely not your style,” Patrick points to the toy in David’s hands.

“It’s a monstrosity,” he grimaces, “but Stevie insists that she won it for me and now I’m obligated to keep it.”

Beside him, Stevie snorts. Her shoulders come up to her ears. “It’s so fucking ugly,” she laughs and pokes it. “I bet it’ll disintegrate within hours.”

Patrick sucks in a breath. “How much has she had to drink?” 

“Oh, I finished the whiskey,” Stevie replies, pulling out the bottle from earlier in emphasis. “And I already ordered my case. And guess what!” She leans in, wavering. Patrick humors her. “They gave me a discount. Plus!” She starts rummaging around in her tote, procuring a small bottle. “Samples!”

“Ah.” Patrick takes it from her and wraps an arm around her shoulder. “Let’s get you some food.”

“That’s a great idea, Patrick,” David butts in. He’s still holding the monkey like it’s covered in germs. “I just—”

David spins around to look for a place to discard it. Eventually he leaves it on a nearby bench and ushers the two of them away as if it’ll explode. “There.”

“That’s mean, David!” Stevie whines.

“It’s really not,” he argues, “that thing doesn’t fit my aesthetic.”

She hums, poking David in the side. “You’re wearing color today.”

“I do that on occasion,” is his reply. He rolls his eyes in Patrick’s direction.

Soon enough, they find a vacant picnic table by the tent at the center of the park. They watch as lights are hung and the live band works through their soundcheck.

“They’ll be playing later tonight, too,” Patrick says to David, plucking a french fry from the basket between them. “Some local band, but they’re really good.”

“Why does this all feel like a set up for line dancing, Patrick?”

“No line dancing, just the casual off-beat dancing of Mistmill’s finest townies, likely drunk. It’s the highlight of the night.”

“If that’s the case, then I guess I’ll just have to check it out,” David states. “There’s no point in sitting home with a book when I can witness some drunk, if not mildly cringey, dancing.”

“David, if you can get through the Brew’s open mic night, you can get through anything,” Patrick replies teasingly and it’s enough to get David to roll his eyes.

“If you say so.” 

“Are you two gonna dance together?” Stevie asks through a mouthful of fries. “Patrick can’t dance for shit.” 

“Thank you, Stevie,” he deadpans, swiveling his head to David whose dark eyes are gleaming. He’ll surely want a story or two, but he waves him off mouthing, “Later,” so he doesn’t humor Stevie.

**

At some point today, Patrick would like to really talk to David in private, but it’s going to be a challenge. Stevie’s a bit drunk, people keep pulling either himself or David off to the side to say hello, and there are a lot of people around.

Unless Patrick wants to have this conversation by the bathrooms or by the line of trees where highschoolers are definitely toking up, he needs to just do it. But David gets stopped by Barry and his son, Gregory, from the diner, so Patrick loses him for a while. 

He also loses Stevie, who worries him for a moment until he gets a text from Twyla saying she’s keeping her company at the bakery’s stall. 

“Hey, sorry about that. Barry’s a talker.” David lets out a long sigh when they find each other again nearly half an hour later. Patrick looks up from his phone, pocketing it. “He wants to commission a piece from me, actually?” 

“Really? David, that’s great!”

“It’s just the diner,” he clarifies, waving Patrick off. “It’s nothing.”

“I’m going to tell you once again that it’s not. People like your work, David. And they like you, a lot.” 

David just chuckles and ducks his head down toward his feet. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” he whispers, and it’s quiet enough that Patrick almost misses it. Almost.

“You know I like you,” he says, finally, hoping that it gets through. But it’s not said in the way he intends it to be. That’s okay, he supposes. David tends to short-circuit when he’s complimented too much. 

David’s head stays dipped toward the ground for a little bit, lips pressed into that shy little smile, his hands twisting his tote around. “I’m really glad to have a friend like you, Patrick,” he says softly.

His smile is downturned but not disingenuous. “You, too.”

**

The festival is the same every year; games, good food, kids running around and laughing. But it never, ever loses its charm. 

The tent practically glows in the evening, string lights burning a soft amber color while the band is well into their set. The grass underneath is covered by click-and-lock wood flooring to make dancing easier; and it’s a good thing too, because Patrick has witnessed too many poor kids in his youth nearly sprain their ankles from uneven footing.

Patrick stands like a wallflower on the sidelines, observing everyone silently as his foot taps along to the music. He swills his drink — Copperridge’s locally-made whiskey — with one hand. The ice clinks against the side of the glass as his gaze flows from one couple to the next before landing on his parents far across the floor. 

His father spins his mother around and they look young and carefree, reminiscent of their wedding photos in the family album. The sight warms Patrick’s heart, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before his mother pulls him out onto the floor to dance. For now, he’s happy sinking into the background as a spectator.

Eventually through all the commotion, he finds David across the tent. He’s smiling as he talks to Twyla, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes evident. David’s shoulders shake as he snorts a laugh into his own glass, and Patrick simply marvels at the beauty of this man.

David is too big for this place. Of course he is; he wears designer clothes that probably cost more than his monthly car payments, he has incredibly particular taste, and his family has a status higher than their own mayor could ever even dream of. But strangely enough, David fits in. At least, Patrick thinks so.

David has taken to Mistmill with ease. He was a little perturbed by the quaint shops at first, surely, but he loves them. And despite his initial intensity and his insistence of knowing what is and is not correct, the locals love him as well. 

Twyla enjoys David’s grandiose stories as she shares her own dark regalings in her unwavering jovial tone.

Stevie adores him, even if she doesn’t say it; David is practically her long-lost other half and the kind of friend they both needed. She calls him out on his shit and he absolutely fascinates her. Patrick makes a mental note to thank David for pulling Stevie out of her shell. As cynical as she was when they were growing up, she was always, always good. 

And at her last book club meeting, his own mother called David charming right to his face. Patrick watched in amusement as this full-grown man nearly slipped under the café table, his cheeks pink.

As for Patrick...Well, Patrick sees David as so much more. He’s been nothing but wonderful these last few months, and more than anything he’s been a friend he never knew he needed. Granted, now that he thinks about it, David is always on his mind; every time he walks into the café, Patrick’s heart skips a beat and his lips immediately pull into a smile of its own volition. Texts from David are answered almost the second they’re received, and he always listens intently to every little thing that David has to say.

Patrick’s stomach flips. He sees Twyla squeeze David’s shoulder, excusing herself, and he catches his eye across the tent. David’s lips twist into that off-center smile and fuck, it’s the most beautiful thing Patrick has ever seen. He wants to be the reason for that smile, he never wants to see it fade.

Now or never.

He sets his glass down on a cluttered table and, in time with the fast-paced swelling music, Patrick weaves through the crowd of dancing people toward David. After what feels like an eternity, Patrick finally reaches him. He doesn’t even let David get in a greeting, he just wraps a hand around the back of his neck, his other hand set firmly on his bicep, and kisses him fiercely. 

David stumbles back and freezes for a second before his free hand comes up and cups Patrick’s cheek, mouth opening. It’s wonderful, it’s everything, and Patrick’s stomach is still doing backflips. The world around them, the people under this tent don’t matter. All that does in this very moment is David, and Patrick is quickly realizing that over the last few months, all that has ever mattered is David Rose.

Time halts. Patrick takes it all in; the smell of his cologne, the taste of smooth whiskey and lingering sugar on his lips. Everything. It’s all David. If Patrick is dreaming, cliches be damned, he hopes he never wakes up.

David pulls back with a small jerk of his head, still crowded in Patrick’s space. “That was a very public first kiss.”

“I don’t care,” Patrick whispers, “Do you care?”

David hums, head shaking. His lips are pursed into that smile once again and Patrick swears he loses himself a bit. “Not at all,” he replies, and kisses Patrick again. And again, and again, and again.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “New? You’re actually dating someone?”
> 
> “Yes? Yes, we are dating, we just haven’t put a label on it.” Patrick clears his throat before continuing. “His name is David.”
> 
> “David,” Rachel repeats like she’s testing the name. “Tell me about him.”
> 
> “He’s beautiful,” Patrick breathes before he can even think of an answer. “Uh, where do I even start?”
> 
> “How about with how you met?”
> 
> He presses a hand over his eyes. “You’re gonna kill me—”
> 
> “Patrick Brewer, you did not meet him at work!” Rachel scolds down the line, and there’s a soft thump, presumably her flopping dramatically down to sit somewhere. “You did, didn’t you?”

As public as it was, Patrick’s relieved that his kiss with David doesn’t become hot gossip through the town over the next week. He feels like he’s just won — not that David’s a sort of prize because he very much isn’t anyone’s property — and he doesn’t want to scare David off. 

They dance around each other the next day, lightly brushing hands and sharing shy glances until Stevie, nursing a slight hangover, tells them it’s almost worse seeing them try to cover up the sappiness. From there on out they don’t hide it, not that either of them really wanted to in the end.

Patrick kisses David every chance he gets, which is a lot. He kisses that shy, uneven smile off his face and peppers kisses on his cheek, his shoulder, his neck. Everything about being with David feels right. 

It’s the happiest he’s ever been, so Patrick keeps riding high on that feeling. 

**

He waits a month before telling Rachel. 

Stevie steals David away for a day trip — Patrick doesn’t know where because he only got half the details — so Patrick decides to unwind by the docks after closing. 

She picks up on the third ring. “I want you to know that you just inadvertently saved me from a very painful conversation with our new neighbor.”

Patrick smirks. “I love the way you greet me.”

“It’s like playing roulette! You never know what I’m gonna say!” 

“And it’s for that reason alone why I keep you around, Rach.”

“Aw, is that it?” She asks, lilted sarcasm in her voice.

“Yeah,” Patrick replies. He continues along the walkway toward the water’s edge. “Hey, did you say ‘our’ neighbor?” 

“I did. Chris and I finally found a place, and we’ve been moving stuff in the last few days. Which you would know if you gave one of your oldest friends and favorite ex-girlfriend a call instead of getting sucked into work.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” He presses his lips into a smile. “Tell me about it?”

Rachel lists off the things that desperately need upgrading in her kitchen — “The stove is shot to shit, I swear. I don’t know how it never caught fire.” — and the plans for the living room, the bedroom, the spare room. Patrick makes a mental note to send her a housewarming gift.

“A home office, Patrick, finally. The place you and I had didn’t even make that a possibility,” she details with some excitement. “We had to do everything at the kitchen table.”

“Don’t remind me. I’m grateful for the setup I have now.” The space above the Brew originally had two bedrooms, but Patrick made one into a workspace with a beautiful desk, some bookshelves, and an armchair. “It sounds great, Rach. You’ll have to send me some pictures.”

“Of course. Do you think your mom could give me some opinions on reupholstering? I know she changes their house up, like, quarterly.”

“She would love to, you know that.”

“Okay, cool. So a resounding, entirely unrelated but necessary question: have you made out with anyone yet, or are you still in your dry spell?”

“That’s a bit harsh.” Patrick huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as his cheeks heat up. “Uh…”

“Oh my god, that’s a yes!” She nearly yells, and Patrick has to take the phone away from his ear. “Who is it?”

“It’s kind of new, actually,” he tries to explain, but Rachel cuts him off.

“New? You’re actually dating someone?” 

“Yes? Yes, we are dating, we just haven’t put a label on it.” Patrick clears his throat before continuing. “His name is David.”

“David,” Rachel repeats like she’s testing the name. “Tell me about him.”

“He’s beautiful,” Patrick breathes before he can even think of an answer. “Uh, where do I even start?” 

“How about with how you met?”

He presses a hand over his eyes. “You’re gonna kill me—”

“Patrick Brewer, you did not meet him at work!” Rachel scolds down the line, and there’s a soft thump, presumably her flopping dramatically down to sit somewhere. “You did, didn’t you?”

“I did,” he confirms, smiling. “He moved here a few months ago from New York. He’s, uh, he’s renting a house by the water.”

“Sounds nice,” Rachel muses.

“It is, actually. Anyway, he, um...He’s an incredibly talented artist; he’s even selling some of his pieces at the café. His clothes can be a little out there, but they work for him. He wears a lot of sweaters. Skirts, too, which are a little complex because they’re usually attached to pants but he looks great. He loves Mariah Carey, which I discovered last week when he commandeered the radio and started singing along when we were driving.” Patrick smiles fondly. It was very off-pitch but so endearing. “And he can be loud and bombastic and sometimes maybe a bit opinionated but he’s...David’s great, Rach. He’s so good, but he doesn’t always see that. I like him a lot.” 

Patrick has to force himself to breathe when he caps off his tangent. His throat even gets a bit tight, too. He didn’t expect himself to get so emotional. “I really like him,” he reiterates in a tight voice. “It feels…”

“Scary?” Rachel supplies.

“No, definitely not scary.” He watches the water ripple as a sailboat cuts through. Patrick breathes in again, slower this time. “Freeing,” he decides. “I feel free with David.”

“I can’t wait to meet him,” Rachel says finally, and Patrick swears she sounds a bit teary.

“That’s the thing, though. David is only renting here. He’s leaving in a few months.” He bites at his thumbnail. “I don’t know where we’ll be by then.”

“He sounds like he’s worth the effort, Patrick, so don’t think too far ahead. It’s new. Just think about what’s happening now.”

“Yeah.”

“And I refuse to let you sabotage something good just because you think it’ll be better for the other party involved,” she threatens lightly. “I know you don't always do that, but you do have a tendency to ignore how you feel, Patrick, and I will not let you do that.”

“Okay.” 

“‘Kay, if we’ve reached the point in the conversation where I’m just going to get one-worded answers out of you, I’m gonna go.”

“Fine, fine!”

“Oooh, two ‘fines!” She mocks, her signature sarcasm returning. Patrick chuckles.

“I want this to be something,” he finally says, and saying it aloud takes some sort of an invisible weight off his shoulders. “We were friends first, which has to count for something.” 

“It counts for everything.”

“Mhm. Stevie likes him a lot, too,” he adds. He needs to rein in the conversation before he gets too overwhelmed. “They’re eerily similar.”

“Oh god,” Rachel groans again, “how?”

“The way they pick on each other, their humor, and the looks they give each other. I can’t quite explain it. They balance each other out.”

“Patrick, if there are two Stevie Budds walking this earth, we are in for quite the ride.”

“I’ve already braced myself for that inevitability.” 

Rachel hums. “Again, I haven’t even met David yet but I already like him. If he makes you happy, even in the short time you’ve been together, then I like him.”

“Thank you, Rachel. I owe you. You’re always talking me down.”

“Don’t worry about it, your folks pay me weekly.”

“Ah,” he grins, “there she is.”

“Don’t fuck it up!” She chimes through the phone, and he promises himself in that moment, silently so it’s just between him and the water, that he will do everything to not fuck it up.

**

“So I have an idea.”

“You have an idea,” Patrick repeats warily. He eyes David’s attire. “Does it involve you putting on a t-shirt instead of a sweater in the dead of summer?”

“No,” David scoffs. He gives his sleeves a tug in emphasis. “It doesn’t. And remind me later to tell you why that’s rude. Besides,” he gestures to himself, “this is one of my summer sweaters.”

“Summer sweaters…What’s your idea, David?” He smiles to ease his possibly frayed nerves, and David copies it.

“Frappes.”

“I’m sorry?” Patrick freezes, his brows quirking upward.

“Yeah!” He’s clearly excited by his suggestion if the little bounce he does is anything to go by. “Frozen blended coffees. I think they’d sell!”

“We don’t have a blender.”

“I’ll get you one.”

“David, that’s a whole other layer of work that I don’t think we’re prepared to take on,” Patrick reasons. He picks at a chip in the countertop absently. “I’m sure they’d sell, but the clean up would take too long, and let’s be completely honest here, Stevie would have my head if we did that.”

David’s shoulders fall, defeated. “Alright, fine. I guess that makes sense.”

“I do appreciate the suggestion, David,” he says, coming around the counter. He plops down beside David and points a finger at the iced macchiato on the table. “Although you already have quite the sugary concoction here. Now: iced.”

“Yes but frappes are different,” David explains with a wave of his hand. “You can really add to the flavor! Like, sure there’s coffee, but you can add whipped cream or even a spoonful of Nutella.”

“What’s it like when you go to the dentist?”

“Hey.”

“Nutella. Honestly, that sounds way too sweet.” Patrick takes the paper straw in David’s glass between two fingers and gives the coffee a stir. “Even this would be too much for me.”

“What can I say, I like sweets.”

“Yes,” Patrick agrees, “you have the biggest sweet tooth known to man. Just the other day you got waffles for breakfast at the diner and drowned them in syrup. I find it absolutely adorable.”

David’s smile goes soft and liquid. “You do, huh?” He leans in closer. “Why’s that?”

“Because you taste sweet,” Patrick answers simply and teasingly against his lips. It’s a short kiss, barely anything.

David leans in even closer. “That’s not fair, Patrick Brewer,” comes his low murmur, and he catches Patrick’s lips again. An arm slinks around to pull Patrick in further. David does taste sweet. Just like his coffee, like he always does.

A finger grazes through the edge of Patrick’s hair when David pulls back. “My boyfriend’s a tease,” David whispers, and as soon as he does his eyes go wide. “O-oh—”

“Boyfriend, huh?” Patrick likes the sound of that.

David swallows, still rigid. “Is that...okay? Or is it, like, too soon—”

“Yeah, it’s absolutely okay.”

“I know, I’m just asking because you and I haven’t actually had that kind of talk yet, so—”

“David.” Patrick reels him back in. He doesn’t need him spinning out. “I like being your boyfriend,” he says defiantly, a hand scratching at David’s knee. “I want to be your boyfriend.”

His lips twist off into that little smile that Patrick loves so much, David’s chin hitting his chest as Patrick’s boyfriend looks at his own lap. “Okay, that’s um...Wow.”

“Good talk,” is his response before kissing David again.

** 

“Didn’t I tell you that I don’t do water activities?”

Patrick shuts the trunk of his car with a flourish, drawstring bag slung over his shoulder. “Yeah.” 

“Okay.” David gestures around them comically. “Then why are we here?”

“What’s wrong with a beach day, David?”

“Is someone going to be serving us colorful alcoholic beverages on trays while I work on my tan?” He asks, and Patrick just blinks at him. 

“That’s...This isn’t that kind of place.”

“Then I’ll ask again: why are we here?”

The look on David’s face when Patrick points to the paddle board rack is priceless. It’s somewhere between revulsion and horror, and Patrick selfishly wants to bottle it.

“Excuse me?” His voice is high. 

“What? There aren’t any motors involved!”

“Patrick, what about ‘I don’t do water activities’ did you not get?”

“No, I got that part.”

He gestures wildly again.

“David,” Patrick soothes, placing his hands on his boyfriend’s shoulders, “it’ll be fine. I’ll be right there next to you the whole time. You’ll have a life vest on—”

“—A life vest?”

“It’s not even that hard, I promise.” Patrick moves his hands up so they’re cupping David’s cheeks. “Okay? I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“No, I know that.” David holds his gaze. “I swear to god, if you push me in…”

“I won’t do that.” He pecks David’s cheek and heads towards the rack, urging him to follow. 

David trudges behind him with mild complaining about the rocky shoreline. He comments that the bright orange life vest clashes with his outfit which earns him a snort. Patrick pulls two of the rented boards off the rack with their respective paddles, passing one set to David, who holds it out delicately. 

Patrick steps into the water until he’s ankle-deep and climbs onto the board. “Get on,” he encourages. “You won’t fall, I promise.”

It’s comical, really, the way David steps on. Patrick has to refrain from dismounting and steadying the board for him, but after a minute or so of struggle, David’s standing — shaky legs and all, using the paddle to keep steady where he’s stuck it into the sand below.

“You know, I’m proud of you,” Patrick states as he pushes off. He twists a bit to see David, whose eyes are wide as he begins to bob with the gentle current.

“Yeah?” He sounds just a little panicked. “Why?”

“For one, you’re stepping outside of your comfort zone,” he lists, and David makes a half-hearted attempt at a scoff. “And two, you’re actually wearing a t-shirt and swim trunks.”

And maybe I appreciate how your arms and legs look, he adds silently for good measure. 

“And that’s something to be proud of? Woah—”

“Easy. You can be proud of yourself, too, David. I guarantee you wouldn’t do this with anyone else.”

“If it was one of the Hemsworth brothers I might,” he says through nervous laughter.

Patrick glances over his shoulder as he paddles. “Yeah? Is there a story to be told?”

“Definitely not by me. That’s an Alexis story.” 

He’s about to ask David how he’s doing, hoping for something positive, when hears a noise of panic.

“Patrick, my stick isn’t touching the sand anymore, what’s happening?”

“It’s a paddle,” Patrick corrects. It’s taking everything in his power to not heave over laughing right now. He’d rather not fall in and make his boyfriend panic further. “And of course it isn’t touching the bottom anymore, the water’s getting deeper.”

“I better not fucking drown.”

“You’re wearing a life vest. And you can swim, right?”

“Of course I can swim!” He exclaims sharply. David breathes in deeply, exhaling a mantra. “Okay, okay I’m fine. It’s fine, I’m not going to fall.”

“Just focus on me,” Patrick encourages, and David does.

For the next half hour, Patrick guides them along the sound. He regales old stories of going out on the water with his friends and cousins when he was younger and how he would do this nearly every day in the summer when he didn’t have other obligations.

“I don’t come out nearly as much anymore,” Patrick explains when David glides up next to him. He’s doing a really great job for his first time on the water. “The Brew takes up most of my time, and now when I’m not there I’m usually with you, which I kind of prefer.”

David blushes. “You’re such a sap.”

Patrick beams at him. “Would you have it any other way?”

“Nope.” 

“Look at you!” Patrick raises his paddle to gesture as David takes the lead. “You’re a pro!”

“Yes well, my legs are starting to cramp a bit.”

“Okay, we can turn around—Woah!” Patrick loses his footing without realising it, hubris catching up with him. The board wobbles backward and he goes with it, hitting the water with a graceless tumble. He bobs back up immediately. On his own board, David is cackling away, rightfully so as Patrick clambers back on.

“Are you okay?” David asks, nearly in tears. 

“Yeah.” Patrick blows the water from his lips. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

“I can’t believe you fell! I thought you were a pro at this stuff!”

“Even seasoned paddle boarders eat it sometimes, David.” Patrick steadies himself and pushes forward. “Wanna race back?”

To his surprise, there’s a glint in David’s eye, hinting at a competitive side he did not know about. “You’re on.” 

**

Patrick has himself wrapped around David when he realizes they haven’t been on an actual date. 

“We’ve been on dates,” David tries to argue, but Patrick isn’t having it.

“A date other than somewhere here in town,” he explains. “We owe it to us to do that.”

“Patrick, really. I’m absolutely fine watching a movie and eating Thai food in your apartment, maybe making out afterward.” David finishes it off with a shake of his shoulders.

His face grows hot. “Please?” He presses himself into David’s side. “One date.”

“Was the paddle board thing a few weeks ago not a date?”

“David,” Patrick breathes. “Let me take you out, okay? A nice restaurant or even just the movies.”

“I don’t want you to, like, feel the need to take me out,” David explains somewhat weakly, his hands waving in little circles. “I’m not—”

“Don’t you even think about finishing that sentence,” he warns mildly, looking him directly in the eye. “I want to do this for us. Quite frankly, I want to show you off to everybody, but that’s not my forte and I know it isn’t yours either.”

David’s lips disappear between his teeth. He gives his knees a pat after a minute. “Where are we going?”

“There’s a nice place in the next town over. We can get a quiet booth, split a bottle of wine, order anything and everything on the menu. Is tomorrow night good for you?”

“I think I can clear my schedule,” David replies, pulling his cardigan tighter around himself. “Now can we please watch this movie?”

“Yes, David.”

“Try not to fall asleep this time, okay?”

His head lolls against the back of the sofa. There’s no way he’ll win that battle. “I’ll try my best.”

**

There are many words to describe David Rose, but beautiful might be the best one there is.

He’s beautiful.

Patrick will think that until the words blend together and sound foreign. But tonight, David is especially so. He walks out of the house in a fringed heather grey sweater and those skirted pants Patrick has come to really love. 

There he is. David Rose, breaking all kinds of boundaries and blowing away expectations. 

He’s a little breathless when David climbs into the passenger seat and kisses him hello. It’s nice, though, the breathlessness. At least he knows he isn’t dreaming.

It’s about a twenty minute drive and additional five minutes while Patrick hunts for parking. The whole while, he listens to David go on about a call from his mother that morning.

“It was basically one-sided,” he finishes flippantly, as they walk toward the restaurant, “but what I got from it is that she’s doing another Lifetime movie with Joyce DeWitt despite the legal claims.”

“I’m sure it’ll be great.”

“Sure, maybe. But Lifetime movies are predictable and notoriously low budget.” 

“They’re appealing to some audience.”

“They’re appealing to a very specific kind of audience, Patrick,” he explains wistfully with his hands fanned out. “Women in their forties to sixties who exclusively drink cheap white wine and have Live, Laugh, Love wall hangings.” David finishes it off with a souring expression.

“That’s...oddly specific.”

“Yes, well.” He gives a little shimmy. “I’m right about that. Like, almost too right.”

God, Patrick thinks. His breath hitches.

Patrick stops short to take David in again, this time in the light of the slowly setting sun. David catches onto his absence beside him and spins around. “What?”

Silence hangs between them. It takes a beat for Patrick to realize his mouth is hanging open. “You’re beautiful, David,” he says, the breathlessness from before returning. He walks up and kisses David soundly. Then he says it again, quieter, because he can now. “You’re so beautiful.”

David responds by wrapping an arm around Patrick’s waist and guiding them along, pressing a kiss to his temple as he does so. “Shut up,” he murmurs shyly. 

“Mh-hm, no. I don’t think I can do that.” He presses into David further. “Beautiful.”

“You’re going to give me a big head.” 

As promised, there’s a quiet booth waiting for them. They choose a bottle of red to split and as soon as the server leaves, Patrick scoots in on the same side as David, holding him close. 

He wonders, for a moment or so, how quick is too quick to well and truly fall for someone. Patrick hopes it’s not something that can be properly defined, because at the rate he’s fallen for David no answer can compare. 

He’s really in deep, huh?

When the wine is gone and David’s head is resting against his shoulder, Patrick’s hit with one of those realizations. It’s early, it’s new, but it’s different. They have a lot to talk about, but this could be a long-term thing. He really wants it, if David does, too. And he’s willing to make long distance work if they have to.

They hold hands over the console as they drive back to Mistmill in comfortable silence; their fingers are laced together and the windows are rolled down. David digs into the tender skin between Patrick’s thumb and first finger, brings their interlocked hands to his lips and kisses each of Patrick’s knuckles. 

“Are you staying the night?” David asks him when they pull up to the stilted house. 

Patrick replies without hesitation. “Yes.”

David takes care of him as always, presses him into the mattress with lips hot and wet against his neck as they move in sync with one another. Hands roam down backs and thighs and across chests, Patrick’s own making their way to David’s hair and tugging gently. 

Sleep takes them with ease, David’s head on his shoulder while the gentle sounds of the water beyond the window lull them.

**

He’s awake before David. It’s probably six in the morning, maybe pushing six-thirty, and he lays in bed in a twist of sheets and limbs. The morning light spills through the large expanse of windows at the front of the room, the sun just barely beginning to peek into the edges of the horizon.

Patrick rolls from his back onto his side to face David. His eyes feel heavy from sleep, but he’s well-rested. David looks otherworldly in the pale blue-grey morning light. He’s practically glowing, his face lax and day-old stubble contouring his jaw.

Patrick moves delicately, slowly, as his fingers come up to trace the ridge of David’s cheekbone, the shape of his lips. When he stirs, Patrick stops. But David only snuffles and presses deeper into his pillow, pulling the blankets around himself, allowing Patrick to slide his hand away.

He watches David until the pale room brightens to a gentle gold.

It’s funny, really, Patrick thinks, that David Rose who is notoriously not a morning person would sleep in a room with floor-to-ceiling windows and the barest of sheer curtains, allowing the sun to be what wakes him. Even with David’s insistence about how blackout curtains brought up repressed memories, and how having natural light is beneficial to a person’s wellbeing, it’s still baffling. 

David had left the curtains open last night. He always does. Patrick had loved it, how the moonlight bounced off the surface of the water, how David mentioned he could see more stars here than he had in his entire life. Patrick knows that beauty, the calm it brings. He’s done it more times than he could count, sitting by the water at night and watching its ripples in the silver light.

David is pensive, if not a little dramatic. There’s a cozy chair in the corner of the room with a quilt thrown over the back of it. Patrick knows that’s where he’ll sit well past midnight to mull over whatever it is that’s on his mind. He’d like to see that, too, David curled up in that chair with the quilt draped around his shoulders, a cup of tea or maybe a glass of wine in his hands as he looks out over the sound. 

Patrick smiles into his pillow. He’d like to see a lot of things involving David.

When he wakes up a few hours later after having drifted off, they’re both awash in sunlight. Patrick pulls David close to his chest and holds him until he stirs awake, and when he does he kisses the deep dimple on his left cheek instead of his mouth, gliding his thumb into it after.

“Morning breath,” David had once proclaimed, “is disgusting.”

**

July hits and so does their slow season. Patrick doesn’t particularly mind; he cuts the Brew’s hours short and spends more time enjoying the weather, and now that he has David, he has someone to share that free time with. 

Who, speaking of, sulks into the Brew one afternoon looking more annoyed than Patrick has ever seen him. It’s cuter than it should be, endearing even. Patrick kind of wants to kiss the pout right off him.

“Hi,” David grumbles without looking at Patrick and slumps into a chair. He doesn’t take out his sketchbook; he doesn’t take out a novel. David doesn’t even have his bag with him, Patrick’s realizing now. 

“Uh-oh. What’s wrong?” Patrick sets his coffee down, but David barely acknowledges it. He just sets his head in his hands and sighs.

Now Patrick is getting worried. “Is everything okay?” He urges gently, a hand on David’s shoulder.

“Sure,” he quips, and Patrick can sense his irritation. “Just my family forgetting my birthday.”

“David.” Patrick’s eyes go wide. “It’s your birthday?”

A smile toys at his lips, the absolute tiniest thing. “Yes it is.”

“And your family forgot?”

“I just said that,” David grimaces, but there’s no heat behind it. “Everyone forgot.”

“To be fair, you didn’t tell me when your birthday was,” Patrick reasons. David just clears his throat distractedly in response. “Happy birthday, David.”

His tiny smile turns liquid. “Thank you.” 

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything.”

“Oh, no.” David waves a hand. “I don’t need anything, really.” 

Patrick kisses him on the cheek, then his lips. “What do you want to do tonight? It’s your day, so you get to choose.”

“Maybe just some takeout? A movie? I know we do that a lot, but it’s all I want.”

“Whatever you’d like,” Patrick reiterates gently.

David gives him a look of thanks. His phone dings, and a look of hope sparks in his dark eyes. It’s set back down with a clatter not seconds later. “Email,” he announces lamely. 

Patrick leaves him be to tend to the group of teenagers who just walked in, their whiny chatter bouncing off the walls. His chest aches when he sees David gazing out the window morosely. 

An idea blooms in his head. Nothing major, at least not on metaphorical paper, but David deserves a celebration. Patrick’s sure it will be lackluster in comparison to bottle service at a club or some Grecian villa, but it’s the thought that counts. It takes a few minutes of rummaging, but once Patrick finds a single silver candle he plates a cinnamon bun and sticks it on top. 

With a hand carefully blocking the flame, he walks over to David’s table and sets it down in front of him. 

Warmth floods his chest when David’s face lights up with realization. “What’s this?”

“Make a wish.” Patrick takes a seat across from him and waits.

“Thank you for not singing.”

“I remembered what you once told me about people singing happy birthday,” Patrick says dutifully. “Now blow out the candle before wax drips on it.”

David squeezes his eyes shut and blows out the flame with a puff of air. It flickers out, a plume of smoke billowing upward. The smell of the extinguished flame reminds Patrick of childhood birthday parties with cheap gel icing decorating the tops of ice cream cakes. 

He plucks the candle out of the pastry and breaks it in half. “That way no one else can make a wish on it,” he explains at David’s questioning look. “My dad used to do it.”

David brings his hand across the table and takes Patrick’s for a moment. “Thank you,” he whispers again. 

Patrick is about to respond, but one of the girls from earlier shrieks with laughter causing David to hunch his shoulders into his neck. 

“Hey.” Patrick nudges his foot under the table. “Why don’t you head upstairs until I close. It’ll be a few more hours, but I’ll be here if you need anything. That way you can relax and you don’t have to walk all the way back to the house.”

David’s brows pinch together. “Are you sure?” He asks.

“Positive.” He digs his house key from his pocket and hands it over. “Make yourself at home.” 

David leaves him with a kiss and his coffee and cinnamon bun in each hand. The second David’s out the door, bell jangling, Patrick pulls his phone out and dials. 

“Sands and Family, this is Twyla!”

“Hey, it’s Patrick,” he greets, keeping his voice even.

“Oh, hi! Did—We didn’t forget anything in your delivery today, did we?”

“No,” he eases her worries. “But I need to put in a special order for tonight.”

**

Stevie 😈  
  
got everything. should b there in 10.  
  
cake looks good 👍  
  


Perfect.

Patrick instructed Stevie that afternoon to pick up the cake from Twyla’s (a beautiful rich dark chocolate tart with a chocolate crust) and meet them at David’s while he handled the food. Pizza was always the best option — there is no such thing as bad pizza. 

He stokes the flames in the firepit as David carries blankets down from the house. He looks soft and vulnerable in the sweater he wears and Patrick has to tighten his grip on the poker. He doesn’t need Stevie walking in on him running his hands up under David’s clothes. 

“Okay…” David dumps the blankets onto a chair. “I’m going to run back up and get a bottle of wine,” he says, already inching back. “Red or white?”

“I’m fine with either, David.” Satisfied with the flames, Patrick sets the poker aside. “Just hurry up or the pizza will get cold.”

“Cold pizza is good pizza, too,” he calls over his shoulder as he retreats back up the staircase. “And I’m getting red!” 

Patrick laughs to himself in the private moment. The sun has dipped behind the house now and sets a heavy shadow over the yard. Light footfalls catch his attention.

“Hey,” Stevie calls breathlessly from where she descends the steps at the side of the house. She has a paper grocery bag hooked on one arm and a cake box in her hands. “Where’s David?”

“He just ran back up,” Patrick says and points at the deck where the back door slides open.

“I got—is that Stevie?” David yells down. 

“Happy birthday!” She shouts excitedly, arms thrusting the box outward and bouncing on her toes as David heads down toward them.

“I thought it was just us tonight.” It’s directed to Patrick, who shrugs innocently.

“I can leave.” Stevie turns to David, “but I’m taking your cake with me.”

“You’re not though, so.” He takes the box from her and wedges it open. “Um...it’s a tart.”

Patrick tries not to act like his stomach just dropped. “Is that...a bad thing?” His voice goes much higher than he wants it to.

“Of course not, but you said cake, so I just assumed it was, like, a three layer frosted sponge.” He sets the box down delicately, smiling. “This is so much better.” 

Patrick ticks that off as a success. 

“I’ll be commandeering half of this tart then,” Stevie announces as she plops into the seat near David and reaches over the armrest to pull a blanket from the pile a few feet away.

“You absolutely will not be doing that, you menace.” 

“Then hand me the pizza, because I’m absolutely starving.” 

“Drama queen,” David mutters. 

Patrick kisses David’s hair. “I’ll go grab more plates and another wine glass.”

After dinner and not long after the tart’s been divvied up, Patrick sits with his head resting on one fist, elbow on his armrest. The contents of Stevie’s grocery bag are poured out on the little patio table; chocolate, graham crackers, and marshmallows. She even bought long skewers. 

“It’s black,” he hears David comment, and he’s right. Stevie’s marshmallow nearly resembles charcoal at the end of her stick. 

It’s on fire when she pulls it back. “It’s fine,” she assures and shakes the thing around as David curses.

“Don’t fucking do that! You’re going to take my eye out!” 

“Relax, will you? Sheesh.” She pulls the marshmallow off with three fingers. It’s gooey and stretches until it’s stringy. David makes a noise in protest, turning back to slowly rotating his own stick over the flames.

“It tastes fine,” Stevie says through a mouthful.

David pulls his marshmallow between two crackers and chocolate. It’s halfway to his mouth when a phone buzzes loudly. Patrick feels for his briefly, but it’s still silent where it sits in his pocket, and Stevie’s screen is dark as well.

“It’s—Oh.” It’s said softly as David lifts his phone up and taps the screen, holding it out in front of his face. “Um, hi?”

“Happy birthday, David!” A loud voice crackles through the phone. He winces, and Patrick looks quizzically at Stevie. She leans over to get a better look.

“Thanks,” he replies, his voice tight. He looks just the slightest bit uncomfortable as he glances at Patrick. “Why are you calling me, Alexis?”

Oh, so that’s who it is. Stevie makes the barest of gestures with her head toward David. 

He focuses his attention fully on David, watching the way he shifts stiffly in his seat while his sister reprimands him.

“Don’t be rude, David. I’m being a good sister and calling you! I could have easily pretended that today wasn’t a thing.”

“It’s not a thing. It’s never been a thing,” David snaps, but his eyes screw shut. He regrets it immediately, Patrick can tell. “I thought you forgot. Mom and Dad did.”

“They haven’t called you?” Alexis croons. “You’re kidding, let me—”

“Let’s not. I’m actually having a really good birthday, so don’t worry about it.” The smallest of smiles makes an appearance on David’s lips. Patrick’s heart swells at the sight.

“Where are you anyway?” 

David taps his screen, panning his phone toward Stevie and Patrick who wave back. Stevie lets out an awkward, “Hi,” just as David switches the camera back to himself. “I’m with friends. We, um...we rented a place? A cabin for a few days.”

“Mh, sounds super cute, David,” Alexis chimes. “I hope there aren’t any moths there.”

“M’kay, you know what?”

There’s a sudden gasp on her end. “Babe! Come wish David a happy birthday!”

He tries to dismiss it. “That’s not necessary—”

“Hey, bud! Happy birthday!”

“That’s Ted,” Patrick hears Alexis say, and David hums.

“I know it’s Ted, you sent me a bunch of pictures.”

“Babe, did you really send your brother pictures of me?” He hears Ted asks, sounding a little perplexed. 

“Only a few, babe,” she says and David’s head drops back. “Nothing private.”

He groans loudly, and beside him Stevie snickers into her hand. “Oh my god, this is gross. I’m hanging up. I’m being rude to my friends.”

“David! That’s not fair, I haven’t seen you in months!” 

“It’s not like you make an effort!”

She gasps. “I’ve been busy.”

Alexis,” he begs. “Really.”

“Fine, go enjoy your little friends! Oh, hey, wait!”

David’s eyes roll back as he attempts to ground himself. “What?”

“You look good. Like, you look happy.”

His face relaxes, the lines in his forehead disappearing but he still looks just the slightest bit tense. “Thanks,” he mutters.

“It was nice to meet you, David!” Ted interjects. “Somewhat informally.”

“You, too, Ted.”

“Okay,” Alexis chimes. “Go have fun!”

“Yeah, bye.” 

David’s phone locks with a soft click and he lets it fall onto his lap. Silence hangs over the three of them for a few beats, the flames crackling at the center of the pit. Stevie turns herself completely toward him, legs tucked beneath her as the blanket pools at her hips.

“You okay, David?” She prods him with the end of her skewer.

Patrick expects a slew of words to come pouring out of David’s mouth, a string of breathless venting about how his sister of course only remembered his birthday hours before it ends. Or about how she’s simply a nuisance when he’s trying to enjoy himself. All things that are very much David Rose. 

But instead of that, David’s lips twist off to one side in a soft smile, his eyes downcast toward the fire. “Yeah,” he whispers, “she’s just exhausting.”

Neither of them say anything, eyeing David as he continues to stare at the flames. “I didn’t think she’d actually call,” he finally adds.

The swell in Patrick’s chest is back. He swallows through it. “Are you happy she did?”

“Mh-hm.” David nods slowly. “I...I didn’t tell them I moved. Alexis barely acknowledged me when I mentioned taking a trip — air quotes — and my parents were apparently too busy, so they just sent their vague support and that was it.” He clears his throat.

“Are you okay with that?” Stevie asks. Her voice is tight. That’s rare.

“I think so,” David says after a moment, his voice tight. “I’ve been on my own a lot. But...At least I have better company than in the past.” He smiles at the two of them, wider, letting his gaze linger a bit longer on Patrick.

But Patrick can almost feel the ache he hears in David’s in his voice. Irritation swirls in his stomach at the thought of his family being so out of touch with David and his successes. If they were to appear in front of him at this moment, Patrick would have quite a few things to say to the Roses.

“I haven’t actually told anyone that I sold my gallery, either,” David announces suddenly. He spins his rings in his lap and despite everything, he’s still giving off that same smile. But it’s vacant. “I had to, I couldn’t deal with it anymore. Broke the lease on my apartment, too, so.” He shrugs heavily, exhaling. “I don’t know where I’m going after this.”

Stay, Patrick wants to say, wants to beg, really, but he can’t do that. It wouldn’t be fair. 

Stevie speaks for the both of them. “Whatever you do next, it’ll be great. And,” she puts a hand out, “you don’t have to figure that out right now.” 

“Yeah.” David’s eyes catch Patrick’s through the fire again and his heart skips a few beats. “Let’s not think about that now.” He reaches for his abandoned s’more and inhales it as he digs through the bag for another marshmallow. “Do we have more wine?”

**

The house is silent some hours later. 

Stevie left, but not without giving David a hug. 

Patrick does the dishes and stores the leftover chocolate tart while David showers at length and works through his usual nightly routine. It’s past midnight, but he still makes two cups of tea to take up to the bedroom.

He finds David curled up in that corner chair, gazing out the window thoughtfully. There’s still a trace of that smile on his lips that Patrick can see as he gets closer. It’s everything. 

David finally notices Patrick’s presence. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Patrick hands him a mug. “You okay?”

“Mh. More than okay.” He tilts his chin up toward him. “Thank you for making today special. I haven’t had a birthday this quiet in a very long time.”

“Is quiet good?”

“I've grown more accustomed to quiet recently, I think,” he says into his tea.

“Yeah? So where does this birthday fall on the scale then?” Patrick asks as he bends down to kiss David’s head. 

“I’d say it falls just short of my twenty-first when I got very drunk in the south of France, but this might supersede it.” He pauses. “I mean, I barely remember anything from it.”

Patrick chuckles. “Good to know.

**

“So my mom wants us to go over for lunch on Sunday.”

Patrick doesn’t have to look up to know what David’s face is doing. He knows it’s flickering between panic and some sort of hesitation. He waits, standing over the stove as the pancakes he’s making for breakfast start to bubble on one side. 

“O-okay. What can I bring?”

“You don’t have to bring anything,” Patrick replies, flipping a pancake over. It clips the side of the pan and the batter spreads unevenly. It’s fine, though.

“Right, but I do.” The chair David’s sitting in scrapes against the hardwood floor as he stands. “I can’t bring flowers; your mom’s a florist. She’d probably judge my bouquet choice even if I did go to her place and get her advice.”

“David, I can promise you she won’t judge. Really, you don’t have to bring anything.”

“Well I can’t just show up to my boyfriend’s parents’ place empty handed, Patrick!” David throws his hands up in exasperation. “What kind of first impression would that be? Besides,” his voice gets soft, his hands clutched together at his chest, “I’ve never met the parents of someone I’m dating before.”

“You’ve met my parents.”

“No, I’ve met your mom and we’ve had conversations in passing. Your dad has only heard about me.”

“Yes, and they like you.”

“Patrick.”

He smiles a little. “David.”

“You know what I mean!” Somehow David pulls in on himself even more, like he’s trying to take up less space.

“Hey.” Patrick sets the spatula down carefully and turns the heat down on the stovetop. “My parents already like you,” he reassures gently, setting his hands on David’s hips. “It’ll be fine. Just a few hours on Sunday, okay?”

David’s teeth drag over his bottom lip as he inhales, and his head tilts back with the noisy release of breath. “Fine.” 

“Good!” Patrick plants a swift kiss to his cheek and returns to the stove. 

“You know, it’s not fair,” David says, following Patrick. He leans one hand into the countertop.

“What do you mean?”

“You think you’re cute with your big, endearing eyes and really, you look way too good in that shirt today.”

Patrick glances down at himself — he’s wearing a fitted navy henley, snug on the arms. He sends a fluttery blink towards David. 

“See, that’s exactly what I mean. Unfair.” 

“It’s just a shirt, David.”

“Yes, and it’s doing a lot for me right now.”

Patrick’s face grows hot. “You’re starting early today. We haven’t even had breakfast yet.” 

“So?” He watches Patrick shovel the few remaining pancakes onto a plate.

“You really want to bypass pancakes for sex? You? Is that what you’re getting at right now?”

The innocent raise of a shoulder David gives him causes Patrick to shake his head in response. So he does what any decent person would do; he pulls David in by the waist and kisses him soundly. 

David wraps himself around him completely like he’s melted into him. Patrick’s hands travel a bit lower and he teases the hem of David’s shirt, one thumb tugging at his waistband once before he steps back unprompted.

“Pancakes,” he announces, and David just looks like he’s caught in a daze.

“Completely un-fucking-fair, Patrick!”

He shoots David a wink. “Before they get cold.”

“You’re the worst.”

**

“You know you have nothing to be nervous about, right?”

David’s lips are hidden between his teeth for the umpteenth time that morning. The drive between the Gellers’ place and his childhood home is less than ten minutes, but with David’s insistence on stopping at Twyla’s to get something to bring, the trek there takes nearly half an hour. 

“David.” Patrick reaches over and squeezes his knee. “I’ve never seen you this nervous.” It’s endearing.

“I’m not nervous,” he shoots back mildly, but then he sighs. “Okay, I might be a little nervous.”

“You don’t say?”

“What if I say something stupid?” David turns almost fully in his seat. “Or what if I offend them in some way?”

“That’s very hard to do,” Patrick reasons. He signals left, turning down his street. “My mom gave you flowers the first time she met you. And I know you went and said hello to her at the festival earlier in the summer.”

In his periphery, Patrick can see David’s cheeks have flushed a gentle pink. “I was looking for you.”

“Well, she thought it was very sweet of you to stop by.”

“Sure. Wait, is this it?”

Patrick puts the car in park, smiling at David. “This is where I grew up,” he says.

Trees still tower over the house like they did when he was a kid; the fence is newer, though. He steps out of the car, David following suit. “Come on, they’re around back.”

His father is helming the grill and his mother is just finishing setting up the table when they walk through the back gate. She beams up at them warmly, pulling her son in for a hug. 

“Hi, boys!” She turns to David, giving him a little wave in place of a hug. “Oh, David, you didn’t have to bring anything, sweetie.” 

He lifts a shoulder. “Just assorted pastries. It was nothing.”

Patrick watches his mother set the box down at the center of the table amongst the rest of the spread. His father comes over, hand extended out to David. 

“I’m Clint. It’s nice to finally meet you, David. I’ve heard a lot about you. All good things, I promise.” 

His lips twist shyly. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

“Don’t be a stranger.” His father gestures to the table. “Everything’s ready, dig in.” 

The four of them flow into a natural rhythm, Patrick at David’s side the whole time with his pinkie grazing the tear in David’s jeans. His mother breaks too easily, Patrick and his father falling into a fit of laughter as she asks a million questions about the Geller home. It seems to loosen David up.

“Is it as big as it looks?” Her eyes are practically sparkling. “It just—it towers over everything, I’ve always been so curious.” 

His father leans into her shoulder, whispering a gentle warning. “Marcy.”

“It’s actually not as big as you’d think,” David explains. “It’s like—it resembles more of a cabin than anything else with all the wood, but it’s also not super dreary and depressing. The house gets a lot of sunlight, obviously. If I owned it, I’d work to brighten the rooms up and bring it all together.” He circles a hand around. “The aesthetic is very outdated, actually.” 

“Oh, well it still sounds lovely.” His mother’s tone is almost dream-like. 

If I owned it, Patrick repeats in his head. He ignores the thrumming in his chest, that wistful bit of hope. 

“It is lovely,” he supplies, pulling himself back in. He looks at David, who’s eyeing him in some unreadable way. Softly, maybe.

“Marcy has one of your pieces hanging up in the front hallway.” His father points vaguely in the direction of the house, and David goes rigid in his seat. Patrick can’t help but be a little proud. 

“You—you do?”

“We weren’t going to let it sit and collect dust forever,” his mother chimes in. “It’s wonderful. Why wouldn’t we hang it?”

David releases a breathy “Oh,” as he hides a smile. 

“What did you do before you moved here?” His father prompts. 

“I’m from New York,” David starts, but it’s posed as a question. He scrubs at his eye with one finger. “I’m not—I’m from Toronto originally, but I’ve been living in New York for years. I’m a gallerist.”

His mother beams. “That’s exciting!”

“You said you were from Toronto?” Patrick flits his focus between David and his father. 

“Yeah, my dad was CEO of a video rental chain up until about ten years ago when it finally became obsolete. He works with the higher ups at Interflix now., He’s on their board there.”

“Wait a second, your father is Johnny Rose? Of Rose Video?”

David nods silently. 

It’s unexpected, the mild excitement that Patrick sees take over his father’s face. “I remember reading his book twenty years ago. Very insightful.”

“Yes. And if only he had some insight on that hair.” His wince earns a snort from Patrick. “What? It was god awful!”

“Has Patrick told you that his first job was at the old Rose Video in our town?” 

David turns to him, lips curling. “He has not.”

“It was a high school job,” Patrick explains, “There’s nothing more to be said about it.”

“You had to wear that red polo, huh?” David sets his chin in one hand, waggling his fingers with the other. “And a little name tag?”

“I did.”

“Okay, but did you burn that fugly thing when you quit?”

“I’m pretty sure I gave it back when I went to college, actually.” 

David’s face falls to mild disappointment. “Shame. I would have totally burned it.”

“What would your dad say if he heard that you wanted to burn company property?”

“I don’t know, he’d probably get all twitchy.”  
That earns a rousing laugh from the table. Patrick can see David really relax then as he flows into another conversation with his parents. 

“My sweet boys,” his mother chimes at one point, and Patrick’s heart skips in his chest.

Easy, he thinks to himself. David had nothing to worry about; his parents like him.

And later when David is helping his mother with the dishes, heads bowed together as they talk amongst themselves, his father claps him on the shoulder and nods curtly. 

That alone, is confirmation enough.

**

The bookstore smells like fading words, dust, and that almond scent yellowing pages begin to give off with age. It’s welcoming, nostalgic. Patrick loves it.

Clarke’s is a two-story narrow, soft-lit space with worn shelving and creaky old floors. To this day, they still only accept cash, a novelty in this ever-changing world. Patrick remembers using this very store as a reference point for a project in one of his intermediate business courses in college; they were tasked with comparing old methods to new and how the world can benefit from both, using a plethora of examples.

The register looks like it’s older than Patrick himself, with its sticky, plastick-covered buttons and the old radio station magnets stuck to its base.

There’s the smallest reading nook with two tables and a well-worn sofa tucked away in a back corner of the second floor. It’s just past the milk crates holding scratchy old vinyl records. When he was younger, his dad would pilfer through the plastic slips for albums to add to his collection: Dean Martin, Eartha Kitt, and Leonard Cohen, to name a few. All of them were eventually passed down to Patrick and are now kept in two tidy cases.

“You’re very smiley.” 

Patrick looks over his shoulder at David who has his hands shoved into the pockets of his peacoat. “I like this place,” he replies with a shrug.

David mirrors his expression. “I can tell. Your eyes are, like, sparkling or something.”

“Sparkling?” Patrick muses with a hint of a laugh. He continues on down the aisle, glancing up at the towering shelves with a finger running along the bindings. “Have you ever stopped in here?”

“Once,” David replies, “a few months back. I bought a handful of romance novels and a book of essays, but I got through those pretty quick.” He stops short to pick a thick novel off the shelf just above eye level. “The Gellers only have John Grisham, some Orwell, and maybe, like, one memoir.” He starts thumbing through the pages. “Who even reads Grisham, anyway?”

“My dad does. At least I think he does.”

“Ah.” David sets the book back in its place.

“Are you looking for anything specific?” 

When David doesn’t answer, Patrick turns around to find him reading the summary printed onto a paperback. His mouth is pressed downward on one side, almost reminiscent of a pout. He’s clearly concentrating, but he looks sweet and somewhat studious all bundled up because of the rain. David’s truly beautiful surrounded by thousands of words between the covers of hundreds of books.

And Patrick really, really wants to kiss him. So he does. But first, he eases the book from David’s hands and sets it down on a shelf. His arms slink around his waist and he leans in, their noses nudging together as Patrick brings his lips to David’s.

It starts slow, with Patrick pressing him into the old shelving until he can’t quite keep it appropriate. He licks against David’s bottom lip and it grows deeper, more heated with a hand at the back of Patrick’s head to keep him steady. It’s a good thing, too, because he’s feeling pretty damn weightless. He always does when he kisses David. Beautiful, lovely, good David.

The woodsy smell of David’s cologne takes over the mustiness of the store around them. Laughter bubbles out of one of them — Patrick isn’t sure who — as hands tangle into tresses of hair and under coats and hems of shirts. David’s hands are a thing of magic cupping his face, and Patrick can feel the smile against his own.

When he was younger, he wouldn’t dare fantasize about getting caught making out in public quite like this, but times change and so do people. He’s kissing David Rose, and when Patrick gets to do that nothing else matters in the world.

He brings his hand out from where it’s pressed against David’s warm back beneath his coat to drag his fingers across the stubble on his jaw when there’s a rustle at the end of the aisle.

“Oh my god—I’m sorry!”

They snap back quickly with a wet parting of lips. Blissed-out and more than a little dazed, Patrick is still able to make out the long red hair and deep brown eyes. He laughs, mostly to himself, and eases away from David just slightly.

“Well this is a surprise,” he says, his face growing red-hot. In his periphery, David’s eyes are bulging and shooting around awkwardly, his own cheeks flush.

“You’re telling me! I wasn’t expecting to run into you making out with someone.” Rachel points to them both. “Not that I’m not proud. Is this David?”

Beside him, David lets out a long breath. “This is.” Patrick moves his hands comfortingly across his lower back. “David, this is Rachel.”

“Right.” David’s eyes squeeze shut briefly and then he waves a finger between the two of them. “You guys dated.”

“A long time ago,” Rachel clarifies. She adjusts the books in her arms against her chest. “And for a long time, too, but we were better off as friends in the end.”

“I didn’t know she actually knew about me.” The way David says it hits Patrick a little weird. Not bad, per se, but there’s definitely some kind of tug in his chest that makes him want to tell every last person in the world about David Rose. He just wants to wrap him up. 

“Why wouldn’t I? The first time Patrick mentioned you over the phone, I knew there was something. Actually, he explicitly told me, but it took a bit of coaxing.” Rachel leans one shoulder into the support beam beside her. “So. Who made the first move?”

“Oh, well that was all Patrick,” David confirms, his smile finally coming back.

Rachel’s eyes go wide with amusement. “Patrick made the first move? You’re kidding!”

“I did,” he proudly states. “Why is that so surprising?”

“Because I was the one who asked you out!” Rachel exclaims. “The fact that he asked you out first—”

David waves a hand. “Oh, no. I never said that. He didn’t ask me out. Patrick just full-on kissed me in front of a crowd of people.”

She blanches. “No,” she says, then turns to Patrick, her eyes growing wider somehow. “Really?”

“The, uh, festival back in the beginning of summer,” he explains with mild timidity. “I just took matters into my own hands for once.”

“Wow…” Rachel shakes her head slowly. “I like this version of you, Brewer. It’s good. Confidence is healthy. Sexy.”

“Sexy?”

“Yeah!”

“Okay, well I’ve always been confident,” he argues.

“Not when it comes to making the first move.”

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Patrick steps forward to hug her, the tight embrace of her small frame still feeling so familiar after such a long time apart.

“Surprise visit,” she explains, pulling away. “I figured it’s long overdue. Someone had to come check up on you, and Chris is away this week for work, so. Why not?” She takes a deep breath, one thumb hitched over her shoulder. “I was going to stop by the café and surprise you there, but seeing as I already found you guys here sucking face, maybe we could head there now?”

“I do want to find something before we go, though,” David says, inching back down the aisle. “I’ll be really quick and then we’ll go?”

Patrick smiles at him, reaching out for David’s hand to brush their fingers together. He doesn’t miss the way he relaxes at the touch. “Sure, David.” 

It doesn’t take long at all for him to find something. Three things, actually; a Sally Rooney novel, a coffee table book by some Parisian photographer, and a collection of Siken poems. Patrick raises his eyebrows at the last one, remembering the time he read “You Are Jeff” late in college and realizing how it now resonates a little more than when he was younger.

He swallows whatever comment he was going to make and leads their little group in a huddle through the rain down to the Brew. 

Stevie’s back is to them when they enter, hunched over her phone and typing away furiously.

“Hey,” Patrick calls out to her, “no texting at work.”

She flips him off without missing a beat, still tapping away. “Placing orders.”

“Is that really any way to greet your old friend?” Rachel chides, sidling up to the counter.

Stevie spins around, finally, brows furrowed as her gaze settles on the girl. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting on a caramel latte with almond milk, actually.” She leans on her elbows. “With an extra shot. Oh! And please!” 

Patrick lets out a snort as he watches the interaction unfold. “Some things never change,” he mutters to David.

“Do they not get along?”

“Oh, they do. Sarcasm is just their preferred method of communication.”

David lets out an “Oh,” and squints. “I’m sensing a theme here.”

Patrick blinks innocently. “How so?” He asks, and David rolls his eyes.

“Stevie, can I get a coffee?”

She shakes at him like the menace she is. “No. I’m busy,” and turns back to Rachel, who’s shaking with laughter.

Eventually, Rachel excuses herself to catch up with Patrick, and it’s like she and David change places without even missing a beat.

“They seem close.” She nods to him and Stevie at the order counter, their heads bowed together as they talk. “And very much alike, which you’ve said. It’s a little scary, actually.”

Patrick crosses one leg over the other, rolling his ankle. “They’re...definitely a force to be reckoned with.”

“In what way?”

“Well, David does have a penchant to spin out and overreact, but Stevie has this way of humbling him. It’s not exactly kind, the way she does it,” he rushes to add, “but she just hits him with the facts. Like, no, if you get a drop of jam on your sweater the world isn’t going to end, no matter how expensive it is.” Patrick takes a long sip of his tea, letting the moment settle. “They balance each other out,” he says eventually.

“Good.” Rachel’s rings clink against the ceramic mug. “I like him.”

She’s smiling now, that million-watt thing that still, to this day, makes Patrick’s stomach twist about. It’s the smile she wears when she knows she’s right, a winning one.

“Me too,” he chuckles. “Me too.”

“He’s good for you,” she continues, setting a careful hand over his own. “I want to get to know my best friend’s boyfriend. And tell him every last embarrassing thing I know about you.”

Patrick groans. “Please don’t.”

It’s too late though, because Rachel’s already on her feet. But instead of walking straight over to David, she heads to the bathroom on the other end of the cafè, sending him a wink as she pushes the door open.

Patrick takes the opportunity to collect their empty cups and set them in the busbin beneath the counter.

His arm slots around David’s waist as he comes up behind him. “Hi.”

“Hey. How’s Rachel?”

“Good,” Patrick beams. “I was thinking that maybe we could have dinner tonight?”

David’s face screws up at the question. “Of course you can have dinner. Why are you asking me? You don’t need my permission to do anything.”

“That’s—David, I meant the three of us. Four, if Stevie wants to come.”

David’s lips twist and disappear inside his mouth.

“What?”

“It’s just—“ He blows out a breath. “You guys should catch up alone. She barely knows me. I’m sure she wants to catch up just with you anyway.”

“Actually…” Patrick grabs David’s fidgeting hands. “She told me she’d like to get to know you.”

“O-oh…”

“But we don’t have to do that tonight. Hey—“ Patrick pulls David so they’re out of earshot of Stevie. “You know you have nothing to worry about with her, right?”

His eyes dart up to the ceiling. “I mean, I guess.”

“David.” Patrick grabs his face. “You have nothing to worry about with Rachel. She’s just my friend.”

“Right, a friend that you’ve dated.”

“You’ve never been friends with someone you’ve dated before?”

David doesn’t say anything. 

“Okay, look...I get that your dating history is rich and not exactly...ideal.”

He forces a laugh. “That’s putting it mildly.”

“But,” Patrick continues, holding David’s head steady in his hands, “if it’s any sort of comfort, she isn’t someone you should feel threatened by or like you’re imposing upon or something. We’re friends.”

“Right, okay. But you guys dated for a long time.” He winces. “You don’t have any, like, lingering feelings…or something?”

Patrick really wants to laugh. He really, seriously does, but he holds back. “Absolutely not. Rachel said it earlier; we’re better off as friends. She was first person I told I was gay.”

David’s eyes actually soften. It’s not like Patrick has never explicitly said it out loud to him, but even with implications David has never been one to judge someone’s sexuality. 

“It’s just...lingering fears, you know? Wait—not fears, we’ll call them aversions.”

“Aversions,” Patrick repeats. “If you don’t want to come to dinner tonight, she won’t be offended. We can do something another time.”

Finally, David’s actually smiling. “You should catch up with her anyway. No buffers.”

Patrick shakes his head because there isn’t much else he can say.

“Wait—“

“—David—“

His hands are flying about like normal, and Patrick’s afraid he’s going to somehow fly off if he doesn’t stop. “What if she’s, like...secretly resentful, or something?”

“I have known Rachel long enough to say, with confidence, that she definitely doesn’t hold a grudge. Maybe against her cousin over a game of Backgammon when they were kids, which she still talks about, but nothing this important.” Patrick hopes, with all his might that eases David’s frayed nerves. “I promise you that, David, because—“ He swallows hard, collecting himself. David’s softened just a bit, and his hands have seemed to catch themselves against his chest. Good. “You’re very, very important to me. You know that.”

“I do know that,” David replies. “Seriously, you two catch up tonight, maybe we can do something tomorrow? The three of us? Or four, if Stevie wants to join.” He spins around to point at her.

“I would like that.” Patrick smiles, slowly letting his hands slip from David’s face onto his shoulders. 

Rachel reemerges from the bathroom. “I have to run back to my parents’ house. My mom demanded that she see me a reasonable amount while I’m home, lest she reprimand her fully-grown adult daughter.” She shrugs, swinging her bag over her shoulder. “Patrick, what’s the plan, when am I seeing you?”

“I was thinking dinner tonight. Does that work?”

Rachel makes a little noise at the back of her throat as she heads for the door. “God, yes. We’re going to the diner. I’ve been dying for Barry’s grilled cheese.” 

Patrick laughs. Some things never change. “Or I can just make that at home.”

“Even better, you won’t have to buy me dinner. You better have wine.”

“With grilled cheese, Rach? Are you sure?”

She freezes on the handle, turning to him. “I’m an adult, I can make my own decisions.” And with that, Rachel’s out the door.

David straightens up beside Patrick. “I like her.” 

“That’s Rachel,” Stevie says from somewhere behind them. She’s on a stool on her tiptoes taking down the specials board. “I’ve always said I wanted to be her when I grow up.”

“Yeah, but you’re like—”

“You shut your mouth, Rose, or I’ll out your age to the whole town.” It’s a half-hearted threat, one that sends Patrick laughing at David’s offended face.

“In that case, I’m not helping you figure out a new drink for the week.” He folds his arms over his chest resolutely.

“Thank god,” Stevie breathes, “I won’t have a guilty conscience about serving something that could potentially send someone into a sugar coma.”

“Okay, you know what?” David points a finger at her, but Stevie remains stoic. “That’s not—Patrick, don’t laugh!”

**

Patrick has two glasses of wine ready by the time Rachel gets to his apartment that night. 

“Oh my god, you’ve really thought of everything, haven’t you?”

He’s set out a spread of multiple cheeses and additions: tomatoes, bacon, even avocado.

“Well you can never be too sure. You are a grilled cheese aficionado.” 

“Truly.” She raises a glass to cheers him, then gets to work compiling her sandwich. “So...David.” 

“What about him?” Patrick adds a bit of butter into the pan, tilting it until the bottom is coated. When it is, he waves for Rachel’s concoction.

“He’s cute, Patrick.” She hands over her sandwich.

He smiles to himself. “Yeah.”

“You know, I’ve never seen you like this.” She sets her chin in her hand, continuing to look him over. “Even when you and I were together, you kept some distance between us. I mean, sure there’s a lot to be said about that in hindsight, but you sort of just...gravitate toward David, wherever he is. It’s like if you don’t touch him, even just a little bit, you’ll die.”

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“I’m just telling you what I saw.” She wrinkles her nose as she gives Patrick a friendly punch in the arm. “I knew I’d like him.”

“I’m so happy you do,” Patrick breathes, because it’s the truth. In his eyes, it’s impossible not to like David when you really get to know him (he understands the aloofness now that he knows the man underneath so well). David’s so selfless, kind. Even if he doesn’t see it. 

“You know, he was worried you’d be resentful of him,” he continues, flipping the sandwich over. It’s perfectly browned on one side. “I had to talk him down from a ledge.”

Rachel fixes him a look. “Why would I be resentful of David? Because we used to date? Patrick, that was years ago.”

“Yeah, but David isn’t exactly the most, um, secure person. And he hasn’t had many successful relationships.” 

“Maybe I’m biased, but I would say he’s with a really good guy now.” 

Patrick’s lips quirk up again at that. “Thanks.” He presses down on the grilled cheese with his spatula. “He was really standoffish when we first met. And, I don’t know, there was just...something about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.”

Rachel’s eyes are positively sparkling when he looks back at her. She’s completely tuned-in to everything Patrick’s saying, so he continues.

“I think he needed a friend more than anything,” he goes on to explain, twisting a torn bit of napkin between his fingertips. “And I did, too. He kept coming back, and I was adamant on getting to know him. I think I annoyed him at first, actually.” They both laugh at that. 

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Rachel responds.

“I mean it. But one day, I don’t know, something changed. I saw David in a different light, and I realized more and more that I wanted to know every part of him, and that I cared about him deeply.” He takes a deep breath, his shoulders rising with it. “So…”

“When did you know?” Rachel’s fully attentive as she leans further into the counter. Her face is soft, and her hair is a mess from running her hands through it over and over again. She looks younger, eager. It reminds Patrick of the girl he fell in love with when he was just a kid.

He plates her sandwich and trades it out with his own — cheese and tomato, simple. “There was a storm a few months back. I offered for David to stay with me since his power had gone out, but I wound up getting stuck there overnight. We just talked. About anything, everything. Remember how I said that’s he’s an artist? He showed me this piece he did of the café and, I don’t know.” Patrick brings a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck and he laughs. “Something shifted.”

The smile Rachel wears is sincere, and Patrick feels a little wrung out. He didn’t expect to be doing so much of the talking tonight, but there’s his heart right out on the table in front of him.

“You’re happy,” she whispers, taking his hand in her own. Her voice is watery. “I’m so happy you’re happy, Patrick.”

He watches as tears rim her eyes. “Rach…”

“No, I’m fine,” she dismisses, waving a hand around. “I’m really so happy. You’re my best friend, Patrick. I love you, of course I’m happy for you.”

He can’t take it anymore. Patrick gathers her up in his arms, lifting her off the floor, and kisses her cheek. Hugging her small frame is like coming home; they slot together like no time has passed at all, like nothing has even changed between them. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? So much has.

Though they talked about it, they never got engaged. Patrick didn’t work his way up the corporate ladder with grey cubicles for rungs, and Rachel moved from advertising to social work.

They grew up and apart and back together, and now Patrick counts himself lucky to have her as his best friend. 

Rachel steps back from his arms, cheeks tear-stained. She clears her throat. “I really think he’s good for you, and I think you’re good for him.”

“I hope so,” Patrick chokes out in response. “I can’t...I can’t lose him.”

“You won’t. You’ll figure everything out.”

“You think?” His eyes are wide and hopeful as Rachel nods.

“I really do,” she assures. “And I know it’s really early to be asking, but I have to.”

He looks at her quizzically.

“You think he’s the one?”

A question like this, Patrick would expect his stomach to swoop or for his cheeks to burn red. But nothing happens. Instead he feels sure and steady, and his lips pull into a smile of their own volition so wide his cheeks begin to ache. “I can’t see anyone else. I don’t see anyone else.” He pauses, humming low in his throat. “Nothing has ever felt this right.”

The Patrick of a few years ago would be afraid of Rachel’s reaction. But she’s the one who prompted the question, and the Patrick he is today, more confident inside and out isn’t. So when she playfully smacks his arm and pulls him back in for another bone-crushing hug, he doesn’t dare fight it.

“That’s all I needed to hear,” she whispers to him, and whatever tendrils of fear he had lingering in his chest snap out of existence.

That’s all he needed to hear, too.

“I hate to cut this short, but I’m pretty sure your grilled cheese is burning.”

Patrick jumps back with a swear, rushing to flip the sandwich over in the pan. It’s pretty charred on one side, not at all like the first one. He sighs, head shaking, as he dumps it into the trash.

“It wouldn’t be grilled cheese if it wasn’t disproportionate; burnt on one side, undercooked on the other.”

“Mine is perfect.” She takes a big bite of one half, grinning a literal cheesy grin. “Want a piece?”

“No, I’ll just remake mine.”

“Suit yourself.” 

Patrick keeps a watchful eye on his grilled cheese this time, stomach grumbling, and he rarely averts his gaze except for when Rachel shows him a picture of the cat she and Chris might be getting. 

“We’re going to the shelter next week,” she says. “You know, I still cannot believe that you met David at work. I mean, yes, I absolutely can but I also just can’t believe it, you know?”

He sits down, finally digging into his dinner. “What can I say? I’m a workaholic.”

“Yeah, clearly.” Rachel throws a crumpled up napkin at him. “You couldn’t have met him somewhere more exciting?”

“I’m sorry, let me just grab my time machine and go to New York and meet David, circa two years ago.”

She huffs a little through her nose. “Ass.”

“He just wound up coming in every day and we eventually hit it off. Maybe it was inevitable.” He frames the last part as a question, really, because even now Patrick wonders if David feels a little less strongly.

“Maybe he just doesn’t like to be alone,” Rachel suggests. She plucks a piece of cooked bacon off of a plate and snaps it in two, and Patrick takes the proffered piece.

“David comes from a lot of money. I think he’s trying to prove to himself and his family that he can do things on his own, for himself. And he really can, Rach. He’s a lot smarter than he lets on.”

“I believe that,” she mumbles through a mouthful of bacon.

“I also think he spent a lot of time trying to be someone he’s not,” Patrick adds, voice immediately wavering off. He digs his thumb into the palm of his hand until Rachel kicks him under the table and out of his thoughts. “Ow—hey!!”

“Love tap.”

**

Late that night, well after she leaves and he’s climbing into bed, Patrick’s phone lights up with a text from Rachel.

Rach  
  
i’m binging x-files (yes, again) and scully just said this. it sounds a lot like what you said to me tonight.  
  
  


The next text is a link to an IMDb page with the aforementioned quote front and center.

_“It seems to me that the best relationships - the ones that last - are frequently the ones that are rooted in friendship. You know, one day you look at the person and you see something more than you did the night before. Like a switch has been flicked somewhere. And the person who was just a friend is...suddenly the only person you can ever imagine yourself with.”_

Rach  
  
love you, pat. i’m really happy for you.  
  


He lays in bed that night turning that quote over and over in his head until the words all blend together, the meaning nonetheless the same.

**

Patrick walks into David’s place after getting an S.O.S. text a few weeks later. 

He was expecting some overreacting (which he gets), but what he wasn’t expecting was a mound of clothes and an open-faced suitcase on the bed.

“What’s...going on?” He pushes down the pooling chill low in his belly.

David chucks a pair of socks into the bag. “My mother is insisting that I go to L.A. for a few days for some premiere. I couldn’t say no.”

“Why?” Patrick picks up one of his discarded sweaters that’s fallen to the floor, folding it neatly before setting it on the bed.

“Because she threatened to come to New York and drag me there.” He spins around. “Actually, Alexis threatened to drag me, and my mom just guilt tripped me. And news flash! I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not in New York. I’m in a teeny little town in Ontario!” David grunts and unceremoniously throws two sweaters, a pair of grey joggers, and a t-shirt into his suitcase. “It’s just for three days,” he huffs, “but I am not looking forward to it.”

“And yet you’re packing for a month.”

David shoots him a glare.

“I take it you still haven’t told them about everything?” Patrick asks. He takes a seat at the foot of the bed and continues watching as David flies around the room at light speed. 

“No. I haven’t.” The grey joggers are replaced with a pair of what Patrick can only assume are heavily-bleached jeans.

“Is that something you want to do?”

David stops short. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to, David. Not right now. You can do it on your own time.”

“Do you want me to?” He asks after a beat.

“Me? This doesn’t have to do with me.”

“I know, but I just feel like I should ask.”

“Hey.” It’s soft yet affirmative and it gets David to stop moving around.

Patrick holds out one hand, then the other, pulling David to stand between his legs and bracing his hands just below his boyfriend’s hips on his upper thighs. “What do you want to do?”

David tucks his lips away, head falling back. “I think I have to tell them I sold the gallery.”

“Okay.” Patrick hooks a finger through David’s belt loop. “Is that what you want to do?”

“No,” he grumbles, “But I feel like I have to.”

“And I’ll be here, no matter what happens.”

David’s hands find their spot on Patrick’s shoulders. He rubs gentle pressure into the tense muscle there. “Thanks.”

“No need to thank me.”

He tips his chin up, chancing a quick look at his lips before kissing him. David falls into him, effectively knocking Patrick onto his back. He straddles him, maneuvering until he’s in a less awkward position. 

David’s lips are against his neck in a heartbeat, nipping and kissing away, wet and wonderfully hot. Patrick sneaks a hand under David’s shirt, blunt nails digging into his back, the other hand finding its way into his hair. Eventually, Patrick urges David to kiss him properly again, leaving the spot he was working on wet and chilled with goosebumps. 

This man, fuck, he’s going to be the end of him.

“I hate to cut this short,” David grumbles against his kiss-swollen lips, “But my flight’s tonight and I really do have to finish packing.”

Patrick admittedly deflates at that. He thought he’d have another day, at least. “Oh.”

“It’s not until later, like eight, but it’s a bit of a drive and I don’t want to get behind schedule.”

“Right.”

He resists the urge to ask if he needs a plus one. Patrick knows full well that David would never agree, but he just wants an excuse to see him every day. Did Patrick just admit to himself that he’s totally fine traveling for and with David?

Yes. Yes he did. 

“I’m assuming you need a ride to the airport.”

David smiles, bumps their noses together and hums in the affirmative.

The rest of the afternoon is spent in idle conversation as Patrick helps him pack — a regular-sized suitcase and a travel bag, because David is nothing if not overprepared.

When Patrick pulls up to the gate around six-thirty that evening, he sets the car in park at the curb and they both sit in silence. The engine hums around them, but the music is off and everything about David’s departure feels unsettling. 

“Do you have your boarding pass?”

David raises it, humming.

“Your carry-on you have, your suitcase is in the trunk…” He’s stalling. They both are. But maybe for different reasons.

“Okay, I should...get going.”

“Yeah.”

But David doesn’t move to get out, and neither does Patrick. Instead, he asks, lamely, “You’re coming back, right?”

“Of course I am.” David actually chuckles a bit, screwing up his face. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “I just felt like I should ask. What if you realize how much you’ve missed that sort of thing? L.A., the events?”

Again, David laughs. “Honey, I promise — no one misses L.A. That town is soul-sucking and filled with plastic and self-tanner.”

Patrick breathes out sharply because sure, of course, he should have realized. “Do you miss your family?”

David goes silent. He rearranges the rings on his right hand, twisting off the second one on his index finger and sliding it onto his pinkie. There’s one on each now, a line of silver on his knuckles like a set of armor.

“I mean, sure.” He gives a half-hearted shrug. “But we’re not exactly close, remember?”

Another silence falls over them, and this time Patrick can almost feel the time running out between them. 

David’s fingers find his where they’re resting on the center console and delicately lace their hands together. Patrick squeezes, because he needs every bit of contact with this man beside him before he goes.

Just three days, he thinks.

“Patrick.” He turns just in time for David to catch his lips.

It feels both freeing and like he’s falling all at once, and he brings a hand to the back of David’s head as an attempt to anchor himself. 

“I’m coming back,” David promises. “I’ll text you when I land, call you tomorrow, vent when my sister inevitably sets me off. All of it.”

“Please do.” Patrick needs to force his voice down so he doesn’t sound like he’s begging. “And when you board.”

“And when I board.” He pats his thighs. “Okay. I’ve gotta go.”

Patrick watches in the rear view as David grabs his things from the back and sets them on the curb before he swings around to the driver’s side window. He dips down enough to kiss Patrick one last time.

“Have a safe flight, David.”

“Thank you for driving me.”

“Of course.”

David gives one last little wave and heads through the sliding doors. Patrick watches him until he disappears, milking every second.

He drives toward the sun back home, feeling as if a good piece of himself has just gone missing.

**

David Rose 🖤  
  
landed. waiting at baggage claim.  
this car is taking forever to get here. i’m wxhaustd.  
*exhausted  
landed. waiting at baggage claim.  
k i’m realizing that it’s super late there when it’s only 9 here.  
i’m on east coast time. i’m drained.  
you better be asleep  


  


Patrick taps out a text twice early the next morning. Would it be too clingy to send I miss you to David? He is Patrick’s boyfriend, after all.

Eventually he gives in and sends it, then jumps out of bed to shower. 

It’s barely five here, and there’s no way in hell David will be responding for a few hours yet. Patrick can distract himself until then.

He’s downstairs far earlier than usual, mopping the floors, changing the display around and fixing a flickering light in the pastry case. Twyla’s in and out with his usual, rambling about something he can’t quite follow.

By the time Stevie comes in around seven, Patrick’s sitting at a table — David’s — going through orders for the week with a barely-touched muffin and a cup of tea.

“Woah…” She lets her hands fall to her sides. “Is everything done?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t look up from his page.

“What about the fridge?”

“I already restocked everything,” he yawns. “The carafes are set, cold brew’s made, and I already ran the cleaning cycle on the espresso machine.”

“Oh. Okay.” Stevie swings her messenger bag off her shoulder and heads into the back.

He’s nearly done with the orders when something soggy hits him in the arm.

“Stevie, what the f—“

“What’s going on with you today?” She picks up a used coffee filter off the floor; it’s packed with wet coffee grounds, folded and twisted up into a ball. “You’re not your usual self, what gives?”

He flicks his ledger shut. “I didn’t sleep well.” And, well, it’s the truth.

But Stevie isn’t buying it. “Yeah, that’s not it.”

“David went to California for a few days. I drove him to the airport last night.”

“But that’s not a bad thing, right?” She plops down across from him. “He’s not leaving permanently. Right?”

If Patrick’s hearing her correctly, and he’s pretty sure he is, Stevie sounds mildly perturbed about it herself. 

“Because I’ll kill him if he is,” is enough of a confirmation. “Especially if he didn’t say goodbye—don’t smile at me like that, Brewer.” She throws the filter at him again.

“Stop doing that!” He immediately rights his face. “David’s coming back. There’s a premiere or something that his mom is making him go to, and since he still hasn’t told his parents about everything—“

“—Oh, god—“

“I know. He couldn’t say no.” 

“Well that seems like a reasonable explanation.” Stevie folds her hands on the table. “But why do you still seem so hung up on something?”

Patrick ducks his head down. “I’m not.” 

“Clearly you are, and since you’re obviously not going to say anything to me now, we’re talking over a beer at Jake’s later.” With that, Stevie leaves the table. 

He opens back up to the order form and sighs. Apparently he’d been distracted enough that he marked everything one space lower than he meant to. Wonderful.

**

Not wanting Jake’s distraction, Stevie drags Patrick over to a vacant high top just across from the bar. She drops her bag on the chair next to her and wanders off to get them each a beer.

Having busied himself for most of the day, Patrick hadn’t had the time to properly check his phone until now. There are several missed texts from his mother checking up on him and one from Twyla about a replacement in tomorrow’s delivery, but he pushes those both off for a later response.

There are several missed texts from David, and his heart clenches.

David Rose 🖤  
  
k so alexis brought ted. he makes a lot of puns.  
  
also my mom keeps calling him todd lol  
  
it’s literally just a primetime premiere so no tux even though my dad tried to convince me.  
  


There’s a picture attached, a full-length mirror selfie of David in a complicated-looking black jacket with more zippers than probably necessary and a pair of well-fitting jeans. It’s accompanied, of course, by a sharp-arching brow.

It’s certainly a look and it’s making Patrick’s mind go places he can’t quite control — he has to completely refrain from replying in a way that might not exactly be the most appropriate. 

Regardless, he shifts in his seat, scrolling until he sees another message just under the picture.

David Rose 🖤  
  
miss you too 🖤   
  


Okay, a little cartoon heart should not be making Patrick feel so powerless right now.

He’s startled out of his reverie when Stevie slams two glass bottles and and two shot glasses down on the lacquered table. She passes him the shot first. “Cheers.” And it’s down the hatch. 

Patrick follows her lead, shaking his shoulders as the liquor goes down.

“Talk.” Stevie nudges a beer closer to Patrick. “You seemed kind of frazzled today.”

“Frazzled?” He repeats into the bottle. “Is that it?”

“I could have said spastic, but I think that’s going overboard.” She spins her empty shot glass between two fingers. “It’s obvious that you miss David. I mean, you’re kind of like a lovesick puppy over it.”

“Right.” Patrick blows out a long breath. He doesn’t meet her eyes, too focused on peeling off the label on his bottle. “David’s leaving in a few months and dropping him off at the airport felt really weird.”

“He’s coming back, at least.”

“Yeah, but Stevie, I mean he’s probably leaving here permanently.” He tilts it back, downing half the beer in one go before he allows himself to continue. “David doesn’t belong here. He’s meant for New York or, I don’t know, Paris. Not a waterfront town with nothing to offer him.”

Stevie’s face sours. “I don’t think he loves New York.”

“Well he loved it at some point!” Patrick reasons, and Stevie’s forehead creases. “I’m just afraid that he’s going to leave and realize he never wants to come back.”

“What makes you so sure of that?” When he takes too long to answer, Stevie keeps going. “Because I just think it’s your own insecurity here. Patrick, David is not the kind of guy to leave someone behind. Especially people he cares about. Sure, maybe he is meant for New York, but he made the decision to leave because he had to for his own sake.” She pauses to take a long drink. “Do you actually believe David is just going to forget about you? Have you two seen the way you look at each other?”

That’s somewhat comforting, Patrick supposes. 

He catalogues everything about David. The first day they met, David with his ridiculous white sunglasses and rigid disposition; that first hug they shared, how David’s arms completely enveloped Patrick; how he laughs, and the way his hand comes up to cover his mouth as he does; the obtuse, usually outlandish stories he always tells, and while Patrick can’t relate, he loves hearing them; the full-bodied movements he does when overwhelmed or over-excited.

His hands fly everywhere. They’re impossible to follow. Patrick’s sure David would pull his shoulder out of place if he were to try and grab for one.

These nuances —“Davidisms,” as Stevie had coined — are what makes Patrick remember why he likes him in the first place. Underneath that hard shell and all the designer clothing is a man who just wants to be seen and accepted and cared for. Cared about.

And when it’s reciprocated, well…

Patrick doesn’t realize how tight he’s gripping the neck of his beer until Stevie’s wedging his fingers off it. 

“I lost you there for a second,” she says, pushing a strand of dark hair from her eyes.

“You’re right,” he hears himself say.

“I know I’m right.” Stevie blinks. “What am I right about?”

He picks the label distractedly again. “David’s coming back.” Patrick says it astutely, more for himself than anyone else. “He’s not leaving. Yet.” 

She smiles comfortingly at him. “I would hunt him down and kick his ass if he left,” she states as simply as possible and Patrick snorts. Thanks to whatever higher powers there are for Stevie Budd.

“You said that this morning.” 

“Some variation of it. He’s my friend,” she continues, “and I care about him like you care about him. I mean, differently, but you know what I’m getting at.”

Patrick nods. “You’re...kind of protective of him.” 

“We get each other.” She drains her beer as she says it, then slams the bottle down on the table again. “We’re both jaded, sometimes cynical former loners who like wine.” She shrugs at the end there, feigning nonchalance that Patrick sees right through.

“You know,” he starts, already unable to fight the smirk tugging at his lips, “you two bring out the good in each other.

She laughs dryly. “Don’t start.”

“Hey, I mean it. I’m happy you guys have each other.”

“Yeah.” Her lips quirk upward, almost privately. “I’m happy you guys do, too.”

The moment hangs heavy in the air. Patrick could poke Stevie further, maybe pull her in for a hug, but he’s not in the mood to risk getting shoved off his barstool tonight. Instead, he signals to Jake for another round and tips his bottle back.

“So are you gonna tell David when he gets back?”

He gives her a look. “Tell him what?”

“That you’re in love with him.”

Patrick chokes on his beer the second she says it. It’s disgusting, really, the way Patrick has to bring his hand up and wipe at his mouth. His face is burning and he’s avidly trying to grasp a cleansing breath.

“What?”

“What, you’re clearly head over heels for him!” Stevie’s hands fly up.

“I can’t just—”

“Don’t give me some bullshit excuse, Patrick.” She jabs him in the side. Hard. “Are you or are you not in love with David Rose?”

His stomach is doing fucking somersaults at the question. The world could stop turning right now and Patrick is sure he wouldn’t notice because yes, yes he is. “I am.”

“Say it.” It’s a demand.

“To you?”

“Sure! Yes! To the whole bar, to me, to you! Just say it.” 

Patrick huffs a laugh. “I’m in love with David Rose.”

When he said “I love you” to Rachel for the first time, he expected an explosion of some kind. Fireworks, maybe, like in the movies. He was instead met with shaky hands and a whole bunch of butterflies.

There’s no earth-shattering revelation this time, but the butterflies are still there. Although this time, they’re a different breed entirely. These let him know he’s sure. Patrick is so completely sure.

He doesn’t realize he’s actually tearing up until his nose starts to tingle, causing him to sniff. “Sorry.”

Stevie jabs him again, this time much lighter, and she’s smiling, too. “You better tell him,” she warns, “or I will.”

He groans. “Please don’t.”

“And risk sending David into some panic spiral? They’re fun to watch, sure, but I’ll spare you the inconvenience.” 

“You’re such a good friend, Stevie.” Patrick gives her the biggest smile he can muster, and she responds with a light scoff.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

**

His phone rumbles on the bathroom counter late that evening. David’s contact photo takes up the span of his screen, and Patrick scoops his phone up to accept the call.

“Hey. How was the premiere?”

“I snuck out early.”

Patrick laughs as he flicks the light off on his way out. “Did you really?”

“Alexis did, too!” He exclaims. “My mom pretty much spilled the whole movie the second we got to my parents’ place, so. I kind of know everything that happens.”

“But won’t they realize that you’re gone?”

“Definitely not.” Patrick can hear keys jingle on David’s end. “She’ll be too distracted being feted by the crowds to focus on anyone but herself and my dad.”

“Uh-huh. How are your parents?” Patrick sinks into his pillows. He’d prefer if David was by his side, but a phone call will have to do. 

“Yeah, I haven’t told them yet. God forbid I step on my mother’s day; the last thing we need is her flying into a tailspin and hiding out in her closet for a week.”

Patrick blanches. “She’s done that?”

“On more than one occasion, yes. It took my dad five straight hours of convincing on her fourth day to at least stretch her legs. After that, he kept her away from there for a week.”

“Wow. Unfortunately, I have nothing to compare that to.”

“I once slept outside the closet and she actually hit me in the head with the door on her way out.” David laughs humorlessly. “Fun people, my family.”

“Well, I’d love to meet them one day.” Patrick says it before he can stop himself, and as truthful as that is, he kind of wishes his filter hadn’t stopped working at that moment. “Uh…”

“I’d rather spare you trauma.” His laugh moves toward something a little self-deprecating, and Patrick wishes he could reach out and actually touch him. “My family is, um…they’re a lot.” 

“I’m sure they’re lovely.”

“Maybe separately,” David says, “and, like, heavily intoxicated. Or if you’re heavily intoxicated.”

“David.”

“Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure.” Patrick lets his head fall back against the headboard. “Are you doing anything fun while you’re there?”

“Well, Alexis is insisting I tag along with her while she shows Ted around. We’re actually going to a winery tomorrow afternoon, so I’m really looking forward to that.”

“I still have to take you to that distillery in Copperridge. We’ll have to take Stevie, too.”

“When I get back,” he says, softer now, “I’d love that.”

“We’ll make a day of it,” Patrick promises. “And I’ll drive.”

“Perfect.” 

Silence stretches out between them, and David sighs on his end. Patrick isn’t sure if he should let him unwind for the night or start up another conversation.

“I miss you,” he hears David say, and he has to force his brain to work. “I know I said that to you earlier, but...still.” 

“I miss you, too. Hey—”

As quick as he can, Patrick switches the call over to FaceTime. He has no idea if David has some sort of aversion to it, but he doesn’t get to worry about it long enough before his boyfriend’s smiling face is popping up on the screen in real-time.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” He resists the urge to run a finger across the screen like some lovelorn widow. “This is much better.”

“Is it?” Even in the slightly-grainy feed, David is still a thing of awe.

“Yeah, now I can see the horrendous faces you make when I say something incorrect.” 

“You’re cruel, Patrick Brewer.”

“I doubt that.” He gets a good view of the ceiling for a moment while David mumbles about grabbing something to set his phone down on, but soon enough he’s back in focus. David has a glass of one in one hand and his chin in the other.

“How was your day?” David asks, and Patrick launches into his usual meanderings, skipping all the parts about being unable to sleep the night before — re: irrational worries — and his revelation earlier in the evening. 

“And then Stevie kicked my ass at darts, so a good day all around.”

“Sounds like it,” David swills his wine around, “I wanted to show you something, actually.”

Patrick’s eyes go wide. “I might be too tired for that tonight.”

“Okay, sex over FaceTime is a little much, but that’s not what I was going for. Just—hang on a second.” 

David dodges out of frame, giving Patrick a solid view of the Roses’ kitchen. The image on the screen is almost eerily still until David comes back in holding his sketchbook. “I drew this on the plane, but I need you to promise not to laugh.”

“Why would I—”

“Just. Promise me?”

He nods curtly. “I promise.”

David turns the book towards him and—oh. Oh, it’s himself. Patrick’s staring at a pencil sketch of himself, and it’s so intricately-detailed that if you looked the right way, you could confuse it for a photograph.

“What do you think?” David asks. “Because your mouth is hanging open and I don’t really know how to take that.”

“That’s me,” he states dumbly. It’s not something that’s crossed his mind...ever, but it occurs to Patrick that this is the first portrait anyone has ever done of him. “You drew me.”

“Yeah, I mean—yeah.” David’s head dips down shyly, shoulders hunched. Patrick would kiss him if he could right now.

“I’d like to see that when you’re back.”

His head snaps back up. “Sure.”

Patrick lets out a yawn, his lack of sleep finally catching up with him.

“I’ll let you go,” David says, already shuffling to pick his phone up off where it’s balanced precariously. “You should get some rest.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Patrick, you have to open tomorrow.”

“I’m fine, David, I can keep talking.” He yawns again.

“You’re gonna fall asleep,” he insists, but when Patrick only shrugs David makes a noise at the back of his throat. “It’s past midnight there.”

“It’s not past midnight just yet.” He glances at the clock. “We still have six minutes until it’s actually past midnight.”

“Don’t get all sassy with me.” 

“I learned from the best,” Patrick says, stifling another yawn.

David rolls his eyes. “I’m going to hang up on you.” 

“Wait, wait! I can make it six more minutes.”

“If you say so.” David brings his wine up to his lips, smirking against the brim. “Why are you so tired anyway?” 

“Maybe I just can’t sleep without you,” he replies jokingly when, in fact, it’s actually the truth. That, and Patrick’s brain just kept stirring up more worries.

“Oh, you think you’re cute, huh?”

But Patrick can’t respond. He’s too focused on how heavy his eyes are getting and the fact that David’s laugh is like a lullaby to him in this state. A sweet sound that helps him drift right off to sleep.

**

Short-term parking at six o’clock is just left of a nightmare, in Patrick’s opinion. He was going to just circle the airport until David had his bags and then park at the curb, but he needed to get out and stretch his legs.

Three days of not seeing David in the flesh has left him a jittery mess, and he’s itching to hold his boyfriend in his arms as soon as he possibly can.

When he eventually finds a spot three levels up, he runs toward baggage claim just in time to see David walk out of the gate. The relief Patrick feels is almost indescribable as he meets him halfway. In no way, shape, or form is this reminiscent of any of David’s romantic comedies, but it still feels pretty goddamn authentic.

“I’m so happy to be back,” David says, a little strained. He keeps an arm wrapped around Patrick’s shoulder as they wait for the belt to start moving, and Patrick kisses the back of his hand.

“I hope you don’t mind, I was thinking we could spend the night by the water. I’ll order pizza and I already have a nice bottle of whiskey to crack open.”

David breathes out hard. “Yes, that sounds lovely. I’m in need of a stiff drink.”

Patrick assumes he’s prefacing something, likely regarding his parents, so he doesn’t pry further.

**

“So...how did everything go with your parents?”

Over the course of three hours, the two of them had polished off a pie and almost a full bottle of whiskey. Patrick pours the last dregs of it into David’s glass, assuming he’ll need more of the liquid courage. 

David brings the glass to his lips. “Well, they were loud, as always.”

Patrick laughs, “Right, but that’s not what I was talking about.”

“No, I know.” David nods vacantly, eyes trained on the water in front of them. He leans back in the Adirondack chair, legs stretched out in front of him. “They were not exactly thrilled.”

“Oh.” It’s barely audible, but David needs to speak.

“All I told them was that it was time for me to move on, that I sold it and I didn’t want anything to do with it anymore. Then my dad pressed me for information about what it is that I’m doing with my life, so I told him I’ve been...traveling around.”

Patrick winces. “I’m assuming that didn’t bode well?”

“Not really,” David continues, “He then accused me of not being fiscally responsible and said that me ‘traipsing around all the time’ wasn’t going to be beneficial for my career.” He scoffs then, sipping his drink. “And Alexis’s galavanting is pretty much inconsequential to them! She can go wherever she wants, but I have to apparently do the same thing my whole life. I don’t know if I’m content with that, Patrick.”

“Didn’t you say that Alexis has actually made a name for herself? She’s traveling for work, right?”

So much for not provoking him further. “That’s not the point! I mean before that, when I had to sneak her new passports every six months because she dipped a toe into the wrong fucking hot spring!”

David releases a heavy breath. His lips twist up into a tiny knot as he keeps staring out at the sound. “I don’t resent my sister, but the second I make my own decision about ending something I worked so hard on, my parents act like I’m flushing my entire life down the drain. I just didn’t want to get stuck there forever, especially with those people who I thought were my friends.” He turns in his seat to look at Patrick. “Did you know not one of them has reached out to see where I was? The gallery closed and the events were gone and so was the booze…”

“They’re just showing their true colors,” Patrick whispers, and he hopes it reaches David.

“No kidding,” he mutters.

“My mom always says quality over quantity,” Patrick recites out of nowhere. It’s his mother’s classic mantra. From his chair, David gives him a questioning look. “I guess, what she means and what I mean is that at the end of the day it doesn’t matter how much you have, it’s about what you can do with it. You know, the people you surround yourself with...all of that stuff.”

“Funny,” David says with an undertone of embitterment. “My mom always says that the business of show is the best there is. Probably not applicable to you.” And no, it’s certainly not, but Patrick can appreciate it somewhat. David waits a beat before adding, “Granted, she is firmly in the quantity camp. She has an entire room of wigs, and very few people are allowed to touch them aside from me, which I believe I mentioned.”

“Oh, so that wasn’t a joke?”

“You wish I was joking.” David finishes the rest of his drink and sets his glass down on the dock with a clunk. “I know how to deep condition, style, and ship all of them. It’s, like, ingrained in my brain.”

“Quite the party trick,” Patrick muses softly.

“If you say so.”

David taps on the arms of his chair with his fingers, drumming out a muted tune against its chipped paint. Patrick stares at him in the silver moonlight, David’s head tipped back against the wood.

He visibly hesitates, mouth opening and pursing shut before he speaks. “Do you ever just feel really, really content with something?” Patrick flashes him a questioning look. “Like, okay, have you ever been really...I don’t know, just okay with your situation, but everything seems good so you feel like there’s no point in changing anything?”

It all clicks then, and Patrick huffs a little breath. “Yeah, I definitely do.” Toronto, his on-again, off-again relationship with Rachel, his god awful job. “All too well.”

“I think that’s where I am now?” David turns to him. “Well not now, but before, in New York. I just did the same things every day with varying, faceless people, and dealt with their bullshit because I didn’t have a reason not to.” David digs his knuckles into his lips contemplatively. “I sold the gallery,” he says so quietly, and Patrick’s laser focused on him. “At first I told myself it was just going to be a sabbatical, but then I found someone who put a good offer in and that was that. It felt like an opportunity.”

“It didn’t feel right,” Patrick whispers. He says it for David and he says it for himself.

“No,” he agrees, head shaking, “it didn’t. Everyone I met in New York was shallow. If I had the money, then they came around.” He chuckles weakly and shuts his eyes. Patrick counts to five before David opens them again. “So...I guess you could say I’m searching for something.”

A moment stretches between them, only the chirping of the crickets and gentle splashing of the water against the dock below them interrupting the silence. “Do you think you’ve found anything yet?”

Finally, David smiles. Not big and bright, but still soft and it’s the best thing in every way as his gaze lingers on Patrick. “Yeah. I think I have.”

His heart skips in his chest and—

Oh…

Patrick swallows thickly. “Good,” he manages. “I think I found something, too.”

“Yeah?” David’s smile grows. “Good.”

It’s you, Patrick thinks, and it takes everything in his power and more to not say it aloud. The air is charged enough; he knows he doesn’t have to say anything.

“So what about you then?” David asks suddenly. “You said you knew that feeling, too. I’m just curious.”

“Well,” Patrick shifts in his chair, scratching at the back of his neck. “Let’s see. You already know I was in a nine-to-five in Toronto, and as beneficial as it was, it was excruciating. Rachel and I had been together for what felt like forever, and when we finally broke up, I got to thinking and, ultimately some soul searching which led me to realize some pretty fundamental things about myself…”

He trails off, but David’s nodding along like he gets it.

“I dated around casually before I decided to move back home,” Patrick continues. “I just really needed to get out of there for my own sake. Sometimes...it just takes time. Not everyone has the same path, and it took me a long time to realize that. 

“And of course, despite everything, I’m lucky enough to have a support system. Rachel was one of the people who encouraged me to do what makes me happy. She always has been.”

“That’s nice,” David murmurs. It’s sincere, and something in Patrick swells. “I’ve never had a friend like that.” 

“I think you do, David,” Patrick squints. “Stevie was a lot more bitter before you came along. A great person, but she’s never been kind to herself. I think you’ve brought out her caring side.”  
David’s face twists into that complicated pout-like smile. Patrick loves it. “I’ve never seen her genuinely enjoy someone’s company as much as she enjoys yours, and we’ve been friends since high school.”

David trains his eyes on his glass and says, “She’s good.”

“So are you,” he replies simply, and he hopes it’s unmoving.

There’s another long pause as David lolls his head back toward the stars. Patrick drinks him in with enough force that he thinks he might drown. Beautiful, beautiful David Rose will be the absolute end of him. 

He’s okay with that.

Patrick hums then, standing without prompt and beginning to unbutton his shirt. He does so steadily, slipping out of his shoes and jeans next, until he’s standing in front of David in just his boxers.

“What the hell are you doing?” David questions, starkly bewildered.

“I am going for a swim.”

“In your underwear?”

“Would you prefer it if I was completely naked?”

David’s cheeks flush, and even under the light of the full moon Patrick can see it. So he smirks, pulls his boxers off and jumps from the dock.

The water is refreshing and not at all a bitter coldness like he was expecting. He lets himself sink beneath the water for a moment, eyes closed as the chill rushes around him. Soon, with a gasp, he comes up for air.

“—atrick!” David’s hanging off the dock, staring down at the water when he breaks the surface. “Oh my fucking god, I thought you drowned!” It comes out as one breathless string, and Patrick laughs as he swims closer.

He eyes David’s sweater, now folded up on the Adirondack chair behind him. “I’m very much alive,” he calls back. “Were you about to jump in and save me?”

Patrick watches as David wraps his arms around himself self-consciously. “N-no.”

“Very convincing.” With a big swing of his arm, Patrick launches water toward David, who scoffs. “Come in! It’s fine, I promise you.”

“There are fish, Patrick! Dirty fucking fish!”

“David, if you don’t get in the water in the next ten seconds, I’m going to climb out and push you in with your clothes on.”

His eyes bug comically. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Ten…” Patrick smirks. “Nine…” He makes his way toward the ladder. “Eight…”

“Okay, okay!” David begins unlacing his hi-tops. “I’m coming in!”

“Really?” Patrick asks with a mix of thrill and amusement.

“Don’t act so high and mighty,” he grumbles. David continues to strip, taking his time until his clothes are neatly folded on the chair and he’s staring out of the water apprehensively in his briefs. “Uh…”

“I’m right here, I swear.”

“I know that.” David’s voice is a little shaky.

“You might want to take your underwear off, David. It’ll be really uncomfortable later if you don’t. Unless you’re cool with going commando.”

David squeezes his eyes shut and tugs them off, tucking them into his discarded pants. “I’m just gonna—”

“Jump in,” Patrick insists.

“I—what?” 

He repeats himself, “Jump in. Do you want me to catch you?”

“No!” David snarls at him. He hesitates for another moment, and Patrick’s partially convinced he’s going to back out until he pinches his nose and jumps straight in like a pencil.

Patrick laughs wildly and slaps at the water when David shoots back up, shaking his hair out of his face.

“It’s so fucking cold!” He shouts. “We’re gonna get pneumonia!” 

Patrick swims over and runs a hand through David’s wet hair. “We’re fine.” He kisses his cheek. “We won’t get sick.”

“You say that now,” David replies in warning, arms circling through the water. “But we’re both completely naked in a lake—”

“It’s not a lake, actually.”

“Whatever. But we’re naked and there aren’t any towels because neither of us thought this through. It’s also the middle of the night.”

Patrick nods. “It’s closer to ten, but sure,” and David pinches his lips off to the side. “This is kind of romantic, right?”

“I don’t know, it’s feeling a lot more like that scene in One Day where Anne Hathaway gets her heart broken by her sleazy best friend.” 

“Well, neither of us are Anne Hathaway and neither of us are going to get hit by a bus at the end of it.”

David grimaces. “That’s dark.”

“Hey, the chances are slim-to-none. There are very few busses in Mistmill.”

“Oh, well thank god,” he retorts sarcastically, and Patrick splashes him.

Shockingly, and much to Patrick’s delight, David splashes him back, his head tilting until he’s floating on his back. Patrick laughs too, studying the line of David’s neck and the way the water droplets glow against his skin in the pale light. He looks completely loose and...free, even.

All the stories Patrick has heard David tell over the last few months were filled with an underlying agony, as if David had been continuously turned away.

But treading water with a loopy, liquid smile and a relaxed demeanor, Patrick knows this is how David was always meant to be seen; not as the rigid and angular, picturesque son of Johnny an Moira Rose, but as himself, his own person, whoever he wants that to be. Once the brick walls were torn down, all that was left behind them was not a shell of a man, but a man. David, a beautiful soul, waiting to be known and understood and seen.

David’s breathy laughter fades away, and Patrick realizes he’s just staring at him now with wide eyes.

“You okay?” He hears him ask almost distantly, but Patrick doesn’t say anything. Instead, he wraps his arms around David and kisses him soundly.

It tastes a bit like the water but it’s perfect, their legs in a twist beneath them. David’s arms wrap tight around his shoulders to pull him flush against him, wet chest to wet chest while Patrick holds David up as best he can. 

He trails his hands up and down David’s body, memorizing every soft curve and sharp angle with gentle fingertips. Patrick guides a thumb low against David’s belly, pressing into the skin lightly as the other man folds him in even tighter somehow. His stomach swoops at the emotionality; the way David feels so steady and solid in his arms will never be enough for Patrick.

He pulls away with his arms still encircled around David and whispers, in the smallest voice, “I think I’m in love with you, David Rose.”

David’s face screws up, his hands set on Patrick’s shoulders. “That’s...you’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re just saying that because we’re both naked,” he reasons.

“No.”

“Then it’s the whiskey.”

“David,” he pleads, “I promise you I’m not.”

He can almost hear David swallow, the cogs in his head turning. “You’re—you think you’re in love with me.” Clearly, it isn’t posed as a question; he’s trying to decipher what Patrick just said.

“No,” he whispers back and corrects himself, “I know I’m in love with you.”

David sputters, a laugh bubbling out of him once again. He rests his forehead on Patrick’s wet shoulder, still somewhat hoisted in his arms. “I...I don’t know what to say.”

Patrick ignores the heavy thrumming of his heart. “You don’t have to,” he replies, and thinks about swimming away from David, just getting out of the water and heading back home. Maybe this was too much for tonight. For David.

But Patrick feels his arms tighten, keeping him in place and asking him to stay. So he does, and David kisses him deeply, slowly, his lips cold against his own and Patrick can feel himself shedding some sort of skin he didn’t know he was wearing.

He feels like he could run around town tomorrow and gloat that he gets to kiss David Rose and that he loves him, but he won’t do that. He won’t scare David away. He can’t. 

Patrick feels utterly invincible.

They keep kissing under the stars, Patrick holding David up in the water, his legs wrapped around his waist. They buoy a bit, tipping from side to side until their goosebumps start to feel more permanent and David insists that they need to get out.

**

Patrick creeps out of the bathroom to find David already in bed later that evening. He looks vulnerable in the oversized pullover he wears, his nose buried in a book.

There’s still a conversation to be had, a big one, but Patrick has so much love for the man before him that he can’t be bothered with that right now. He’s already decided that he’s in it for the long run, whatever that entails.

David peers at him, a wistful smile taking over his face. He drops the book onto the nightstand, readjusting himself against the headboard as Patrick climbs under the covers with him. 

“I didn’t tell you because I was venting and honestly a little bit drunk, and I was so focused on that,” David says to him, “but they eventually came around to it. Me selling the gallery.”

“I almost wish you’d led with that.”

“Certainly should have,” David agrees, nodding. “They called me when I was waiting to board to say that they support whatever I’m doing and that it had just come as a shock to them.” He clicks his tongue. “Well, it was actually my dad who said he supported me. My mom said it a little less...explicitly.”

Patrick cocks his head to the side. “How so?”

“Let’s just say there’s a likelihood that she studied the nature of language in a past life.”

“She’s a performer.”

“She’s Moira Rose.”

Patrick pulls him close until David’s head is resting on his shoulder.

“Hey.” David sits upright again, and unless Patrick’s completely mistaken, his eyes are just the tiniest bit shiny.

He could get lost in those dark eyes forever. They reflect so much light and fill up with so much emotion. It’s no wonder why Patrick stares into them when he speaks to David; they’re mesmerizing. Something coils in his belly then, because the shaky breath David just emitted is wet.

“I love you.” David says it with the slightest shake of his head, like he’s completely sure about it. Which it appears he is, because he says it again, “I love you.” 

And what in life did Patrick do to deserve something so good? He feels like he’s floating and the only thing holding him back from completely drifting away his David’s presence beside him. So he pulls him back in, nosing at his hair and dropping kiss after kiss on his head. 

God, he can’t ever let this man go. 

**

“Um. Stevie gave me this.”

Several weeks later, when summer’s officially come to an end and the temperature begins to drop, David walks into Patrick’s apartment clutching a piece of paper.

He drops a mint green flyer onto the pile of paperwork in front of him. Patrick points to his laptop. “David, I’m trying to get some work done, unless you’d like to help.”

David plucks the paper from the top. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Wait a second, I wanted to read that.” Patrick swipes for it, but he’s holding it up and away from him. “David.”

“No, you’re clearly busy,” he says teasingly, waving his free hand toward the table, “Go back to your work.” He actually makes a shooing motion at Patrick as if he’s a dog. “Go ahead.”

He can one-up David. With one hand, Patrick tickles him right in the ribs, forcing him to flinch. Patrick successfully gets the flyer from his boyfriend’s grip, laughing at David’s breathlessness.

“Hey—no!” David jumps back, his arms folding in on himself. “A tickle fight? Seriously? What are we, nine?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” He waves the paper triumphantly.

“You’re a menace, Patrick Brewer.”

He smirks, turning to read it. “Yeah.”

It doesn’t take a miracle to decipher why Stevie gave the flyer to David in the first place.

It’s a posting from the Mistmill Arts Society. Apparently, they’re holding a showing for local artists and are in need of more participants. It’s not a contest, and by the looks of it there’s no admission fee, either. 

“Are you gonna call them?”

David fixes him a look. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you’d be a perfect addition to it.”

“I don’t see how. My work really isn’t that great—”

“That’s not true.” Apparently David’s in need of some tough love. “Do you not remember all of your work selling out?”

“Right, but that was at the café, not this museum,” he explains, taking the flyer back and waving it around.

“And this museum isn’t MoMA, but who cares? David.” Patrick looks at him earnestly. “This is a great opportunity for you.”

He falls onto the couch with a huff. “Sure.” 

“I mean it.” Patrick turns to look toward him, but all he really sees are David’s feet hanging over the arm. “Why don’t you go down there and talk to them? Bring some of your work along with you.”

“I don’t know,” he trails off warily.

“What’s the worst that could happen? You know about art! You ran galleries professionally, so I’m sure they’d be thrilled to have you as part of the exhibit.”

A sigh escapes David, and Patrick can hear him settle deeper into the couch, falling silent. Assuming that’s it for now, Patrick turns back to his computer, marking up the needs for the coming week and the shipment of a new roast he’s bringing into rotation.

“Do you think that maybe this was Stevie’s way of saying she wants me to stick around? These things sometimes have some permanency to them.”

“If that’s the case, then she has a funny way of saying it,” Patrick admits. “But it’s Stevie. She has trouble expressing sincerity outright.”

David hums. “Yeah, I guess,” he says, going silent once more. Patrick’s about to change the subject and make some tea, when he speaks up again. “What about you?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to you staying either,” he replies honestly. He would want nothing more than for David to stick around, but he knows they’re both avoiding the inevitable here. Quickly, Patrick adds, “Who else is going to try Twyla’s new creations?”

A laugh erupts from somewhere on the sofa. It’s hearty and genuine and it makes Patrick chuckle, too. Any blooming tension is immediately washed from the room.

He pads over to where David lays sprawled out on the cushions, hooking one leg over his hip. David’s eyes go wide as they dart down toward Patrick’s lips, and he moves his hands from their folded place on his stomach to wrap gently around Patrick’s wrists by his head.

A noise comes from one of them, Patrick isn’t sure who, and he kisses David swiftly. “You’d be perfect,” he repeats against his mouth, his breath hot. If only David could see what he sees.

A finger comes up and knocks the underside of Patrick’s chin. “I'll think about it.”

Patrick looks at the man beneath him fondly and hopes, really hopes, that David can tell just how proud he is by that promise alone. “Good.”

**

It takes a few days — and some pushing from Stevie — for David to actually call the number printed on the bottom of the flyer. They ask David to stop by and speak to the museum’s lead curator the following Monday.

The morning of, David walks into the café with his bag gripped tightly in one white-knuckled hand.

“How do I look?” He asks both Stevie and Patrick.

“You look good,” Stevie nods. “Your left shoe is untied, but…”

“Fuck.” 

“Stevie.” Patrick sets a hand on her shoulder. “David, you look great. You’re going to knock it out of the park.”

He pinks at Patrick twice. “This is one of those baseball references or whatever, right?”

“Yes.”

David paces the length of the counter, dropping his bag on a chair. “I don’t look too…” He waves his hands around. “Too much?” 

“David, you look fine.”

He goes rigid, deep worry still etched in his features. “White jeans are okay? And the sweater’s fine?” It’s solid black, the only contrast being the white rose motif over his heart. “Like...Do I look professional?”

“I never thought you would be someone to overthink an interview,” Stevie ponders as she leans against the back of the pastry case. “If we can even call it that. I mean, I suppose I should have known you would, considering you overthink everything.”

“I really don’t need this kind of harassment right now,” David bites. He bunches the sleeves of his shirt into his fists, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“Come on.” Patrick grabs David’s bag and a travel mug of tea. “I’ll walk you out.”

“You don’t have to,” David attempts to protest, but Patrick’s already guiding him out the door. 

“I feel like if I don’t, you’ll never actually leave.”

“That’s fair.”

They walk around to where Patrick’s car is parked on a side street. As soon as they get to it, David slumps against the driver’s door with a shaky breath. “This is stupid,” he groans. “I’ve been in higher stakes situations and have been less nervous.”

“Maybe it’s because this time you’re sharing something so personal, and you haven’t been on this side of an interview process in a long time.” Patrick lays a gentle hand at the small of David’s back, rubbing his thumb in little half-moon shapes soothingly. “Or because you know how good your work is.”

“Need I remind you, Patrick, that I ran galleries.”

“Yes, I know that.” He shakes his head. “But you never showed your own stuff there, right? You always had other people to focus on. There is nothing high stakes about this. If you don’t like it, or if by some improbable chance they don’t like what you’re bringing to the table,” David’s head finally lifts to look at Patrick, “then that’s it. Okay?”

Slowly, carefully, David peels himself away from the car and stands upright. He gives his shoulders a roll as a long breath escapes him. “I’m gonna go.”

Patrick gives him an encouraging smile and presses the travel mug into his hands. “You’ll do great,” he reassures, opening the door for him. “Get gas on the way back?”

To his delight, David laughs just a little. “Maybe.”

Patrick stands there with his hands shoved deep into his pockets as David drives off into the midsummer morning. A few hours. He can wait it out a few hours.

**

When David barges into the café in the early afternoon, Patrick can breathe a little easier.

Stevie speaks first. “How’d it go?” 

“Exhibit’s at the end of the month,” David says on an exhale. “I just have to pick eight or nine pieces to show and umph—!”

Patrick nearly pounces on him. He has one hand wrapped around the back of David’s head, and it stays there even when he steps back. “I knew they’d love you,” he whispers. “I’m so proud of you.”

David’s face has gone all soft and shy as he tries to hide his pleased smile.

“Guys, we have customers,” Stevie calls to them flatly, “so if you could please not make both them and me throw up from how disgusting you’re being, that would be much appreciated.”

David flips her off.

**

_**Incoming Call: David Rose 🖤** _

Patrick hits Accept. “Hey.” He tucks his phone between his shoulder and his ear as he carries a box back up to the front.

“Are you at work?” David sounds a little breathless. It makes Patrick’s stomach clench.

“I am,” he replies. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you soon.”

David hangs up after that. It only sets Patrick even further on edge. He refuses to worry until he absolutely has to, so he busies himself with restocking the fridge up front and chatting idly with Stevie.

Half an hour later, Stevie’s nodding toward the pathway outside where David’s walking. Patrick immediately clocks the look on David’s face and begins to feel the ice in his veins. He exchanges a glance with Stevie, shrugging.

“So the people who own the house are coming back.”

Oh. 

That’s not what Patrick was expecting to hear. Really, he doesn’t know if he should feel some semblance of relief or not with the knowledge David isn’t in some sort of dire trouble. Then again, in David’s eyes he might just be.

“Okay?”

“Next week,” David clarifies from where he still stands in the doorway. “There’s some legal stuff and they have to come back early to deal with it all. They offered for me to stay at the house and said they’d just get a room at one of the hotels nearby, but I couldn’t let them do that. Obviously.”

“You can stay with me, David,” Patrick rushes to say. He knows David’s mind is already running a mile a minute and that the best thing to do is reel him back in.

He wrings his hands. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be.”

“Okay, well I don’t know what to do.” It comes out in one string of breath.

The whole room seems to shift. David looks like he’s going to burst and all Patrick wants to do in this moment is wrap him up.

“I thought I had some more time here, but I can’t stay at your place for another month and a half before I decide what the fuck I’m going to do with my life!”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Patrick gets himself to cross the floor and ease David into a chair. “You can stay with me for as long as you need.” 

“You’ll get sick of me eventually.”

“I could never get sick of you, David,” Patrick assures. “You know that.” 

David’s lips are tucked between his teeth as he nods vacantly, not meeting Patrick’s eye. Patrick rubs at his sloping shoulders, glancing over at Stevie for some kind of help. While it looks like she’s clawing around for something to say, her mouth just hangs open.

“Why don’t you two head out?” She finally suggests. “I can handle the rest of the day alone.”

Patrick has never been so grateful for Stevie Budd in his life. He unties his apron and hangs it, grabbing two teas on his way back around the counter.

With one arm looped around David’s shoulder, he guides him out of the café and in the direction of the pier across the way. It’s not until they’re sitting on a bench overlooking the water that David heaves forward and presses his face into his hands.

“I don’t know what to do,” Patrick hears him breathe, but it’s muffled by his hands and the tightness in his voice.

He rubs at David’s back in little circles until the hiccuping subsides and he’s breathing evenly again. When he sits upright, all his exhausted weight pressed into the back of the bench, David’s face is splotchy and red and Patrick silently curses himself for only grabbing one napkin on the way out.

“Take your time,” he whispers into David’s ear, his heart breaking. He presses his lips featherlight against David’s jawline. “Start from the beginning.”

David inhales shakily, his hands in vice grips with one another. “Mrs. Geller called this morning to let me know that she and her husband were cutting their stay in Florida short. Apparently whatever it is they have to do can’t wait until they’re scheduled to come back. She didn’t really go into any detail, which is fine, it’s not my house, it’s theirs. God.” He laughs wetly. “I didn’t expect myself to get so hung up on this sort of thing, yet here I am.”

The lilt in David’s voice does nothing to ease Patrick or David himself. His face crumples again and soon enough he’s pressing into Patrick’s shoulder.

“Them coming back put how not permanent my stay is into perspective,” he continues wearily. Patrick ignores the tightening in his own throat and focuses all his attention on comforting David. “It really...cut all this short.”

Patrick wants to shout. He wants to kick and scream and tell David that he can stay, but it wouldn’t be fair to either of them. 

“I don’t know what my next step is,” David finally admits timidly. He removes one of his rings and restacks it onto a different finger, spinning it around. “I haven’t thought about what happens after I leave because I haven’t thought about leaving. I’ve been so comfortable here, I didn’t feel the need to figure out what I’m supposed to do next. I’m not even sure I want to go back to New York. I might have sold everything I had there but I don’t know where else there is for me to go. I just kind of assumed I’d go back there in the end.”

Patrick is positive that this is the most broken he’s ever seen David. It makes him ache to his core.

He squeezes his knee. “We’ll figure it out.”

David’s mouth quirks upward on one side. “Thank you, but you really don’t have to help me.”

“Hey. Look at me.” And he does, shiny eyes and all. Patrick taps at his own chest. “I need you to know that I’m all in. Whatever it is that you want to do, I’m right there with you. So if you want to move halfway across the continent or three hours away or something, I’ll be okay with that. I’ll wait for you, David.”

He clears his throat, blinking back tears. “I—really?”

“You already know that I’m in love with you. I can do the distance if we have to.”

“I hope you know how much I appreciate you saying that,” David whispers after a quiet moment, squeezing Patrick’s knee in return. He gives Patrick a watery smile. “I love you.”

“You know I can’t ask you to stay, David.” Patrick takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “You have to live your life.”

“I know that.” And then, with the smallest but most sincere smile, he promises, “We’ll figure everything out.”

For the first time since he walked through the door at the Brew this morning, David actually looks hopeful, and something like relief washes over Patrick.

David pulls him in close. He kisses the side of his head twice, a thing he’s grown so accustomed to doing, and lets his arm drape around Patrick’s neck. The whole motion anchors Patrick to that very spot. A promise of a future with David, wherever and whenever it might be, is all they need right now. Like David said, they will figure it all out.

If David has to leave, then Patrick will be right here waiting and rooting for him. Nothing will change that. David has a life to live, too, with aspirations to follow and people to impress.

But Patrick is selfish, too, in wanting David to stay right by his side forever. He wants to take him by the shoulders and say, “Look at the people here who love you. Look at who you make smile every day. Look at what we can do here.” But he can’t do that, and David can’t make a living sitting idle when he has so much to offer.

He needs to do something incredible.

David and his monochromatic wardrobe need to turn heads. He needs to fly first before he settles.

For now, though, Patrick will take each and every precious moment they have left together in person and cherish all of it.

**

David’s things are packed up and in Patrick’s apartment a few days later. They spend an entire day scrubbing the house from top to bottom before the Gellers come home, sharing one last night on the dock with a few drinks between them. 

If Patrick could put one word to it, it would be somber. Suddenly, everything feels a lot more real. The impermanence of David’s stay is creeping up on them both.

For now, though, he gets to have David by his side every night hogging the blankets. That alone makes him happy.

He absolutely refuses to count down the days they have left together. It would just throw him for a loop.

**

“These early mornings are seriously going to kill your undereyes,” David says one evening a few days later as he prods at the delicate skin there.

They’re laying on Patrick’s bed, a long-forgotten movie playing out on the laptop. David’s lips were much more interesting than whatever slightly cliched plotline was happening on screen.

David’s ring finger moves along carefully. He pulls away, leaving Patrick in his wake, to rummage through his toiletry bag. To his amusement, David pulls out two small packets. “Here.”

“What are these?” He takes one. The pack reads ‘hydrogel under eye masks.’ 

“You’re going to put them on and leave them on for twenty minutes,” David instructs, already opening up his own packet and heading toward the bathroom. He flicks the light on and with two careful fingers, extracts one patch and sets it under his left eye in the mirror.

It looks slimy, Patrick notes, but he follows David’s lead, putting on a patch of his own with meticulous precision.

David smiles at him in the reflection as he applies one under his right eye. “It’s a little bunched up,” he observes, reaching out to spread the patch flat along Patrick’s orbital bone.

“What are these things soaked in?”

“It’s an essence.” 

“Sure.” 

“Hyaluronic acid and glycerin, usually. Sometimes caffeine.”

“Ah, your favorite.” Patrick winks as David applies the other patch for him. “And what do they do exactly?”

“Brighten and depuff your under eye area so you don’t look as tired.” David gives him a smile and steps back. “There. All set.”

“I’m sorry, I look tired?” Patrick never really thought he had dark circles under his eyes. “I always assumed I looked pretty well rested.”

“I’m sure caffeine does wonders for you—”

“David, I don’t drink coffee.”

“Yes, which is frankly ridiculous considering you own and operate a coffee shop. Tea is barely a good source of caffeine.”

“I’d argue that it’s a healthier source of caffeine, actually.”

“Hi, not my point.” David sighs. He drapes his hands on Patrick’s shoulders. “I just don't want you to overwork yourself. You do all these early mornings by yourself.”

“Stevie helps me,” he reasons.

“Stevie barely helps,” David counters. “She explicitly says she needs at least two cups of coffee before she’s able to deal with people for the day, which I relate to.”

“David.” Patrick takes his face in his hands, minding the patches. It feels weird and a little unnatural with his own patches sitting under his eyes when he smiles. Patrick feels somewhat restricted in his facial movements. “I like my mornings. The café closes at four anyway, and I’m absolutely fine with the hours I keep.” 

“Then I’ll help you,” David announces, and Patrick blinks at him hard.

“What?”

“I’ll help you! You can teach me how to froth milk and, like, the proper tea-steeping technique or whatever!” He shakes his shoulders and gives Patrick his winningest smile. “What do you say?”

Patrick dips his head down, lips pursed. “I can’t ask you to do that,” he begins carefully and David’s face falls.

“You’re not asking, I’m offering,” he counters.

“David.”

“Please? I can do it as a thanks for letting me stay here since the Gellers came back. I can’t just squat here and then mooch off of you for coffee downstairs. Let me help.”

It’s against Patrick’s better judgement but he ultimately says yes, insisting that David only works two days a week at most. 

“And I’ll be paying you without argument,” he concludes, holding up a finger. “If you’re up for it, we can start tomorrow since it’s Stevie’s day off and she won’t be there to distract you.”

David hums. “Yes. Because she’ll be more distracting than my boyfriend.”

“Unfortunately, and as much as it pains me to say this, we’ll have to keep the PDA to a minimum during work hours,” Patrick says, and David lets out a grumble. “I’m sure you’ll survive.”

“It’s unfair, really.”

“I hate to counter that argument, but I do understand.”

“I do have to stop by the house and drop off my key with Mrs. Geller,” David explains, heading back toward the bed. “But I’ll come by when I’m done there. Hey, are you going to have to teach me about all the blends of coffee you sell?”

Patrick chuckles. “They’re called roasts, which I’ve said several times before, and yes. I’ll teach you the basics, maybe do a cupping.”

One of David’s brows goes high. “That sounds sexy. Or like one of those weird massages that leave what look like giant hickeys all over your body.”

“Swimmers do those,” Patrick says astutely, and David gives him a look. “What? One of my buddies in high school went on to swim in college, it’s just something they do to—you know what? Never mind. Did you set a timer for these things?”

David nods. “We still have seventeen minutes before we can take these off. And before you ask, no, you don’t wash the product off your face. You have to let it soak into your skin.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing I don’t do this every day,” Patrick ribs. “It takes forever.”

“Yeah, we’re gonna have to change that. Skincare is for everyone, and curating the proper routine is very beneficial.”

Patrick hums, glancing down at David’s lips. “I guess you’ll just have to show me.”

“That I can do,” David says, then leans in.

**

By the time David walks into the café the next morning, the rush has come and gone, leaving Patrick plenty of time to teach David the ropes.

“How did it go at the house?” He asks, grabbing a spare apron for David.

“Good. They made me tea and asked me about my stay.” He takes it between two fingers and grimaces. “Is this necessary?”

“You don’t want to get coffee grounds on your clothes, right?”

Somehow, David grimaces further, looking at his expensive attire. “No.” He pulls the apron over his head and ties it. He walks over to the espresso machine, startling as it lets out a routine hiss.

“Is it supposed to do that?” 

“It’s the cleaning cycle.”

“Right.” David waves a hand at it. “How do we...what do I do with this?”

Patrick makes a show of teaching David how to properly use and clean the espresso machine after each use, the differences between a Red Eye and an Americano, the proper way to steam and pour milk and how to use the cash.

David starts to get the hang of it by closing. Patrick gives him free reign in the last hour to mess around with a few drinks and even teaches him how to make his regular order. They’re not perfect by any means, but he’ll give David a gold star for his efforts.

When the daily cleaning is done, Patrick flips the sign on the door to Closed and walks to where David’s sitting in his usual spot with a cup of tea.

“Not bad for your first day,” he noses into his hair. “I say we celebrate with pizza tonight.”

David suppresses a moan at the mention of dinner. “Pizza sounds incredible,” he agrees. “But I did want to talk to you about something.”

“Oh, no. You’re not cut out for a barista lifestyle, huh?”

David laughs. “No, that’s not it. I mean, you’ll probably fire me anyway.” He folds his hands on the table, suddenly very quiet, and Patrick can sense his apprehension. “It’s about the opening. Normally there’s a cover charge at the door, but apparently the featured artists get a few free tickets.”

Patrick blinks, the tension in his shoulders subsiding. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I have to let them know how many I’d like, so I was wondering if you’d like to come.”

“As your date?” It’s impossible to bite back his excitement, even as David tries to feign nonchalance.

“I mean, sure? It’s not really, uh, a date scenario per se, but...yeah.”

Patrick takes his hand over the table, rubbing his thumb across David’s knuckles and the cool metal rings that sit by them. “I would love to be your date, David.”

He breathes a sigh of relief. “Okay, okay. Good. Just for the record, I asked Stevie, too. She’s not my date, obviously, you are, but she was basically at the helm of all of this, so it would probably be rude if I didn’t invite her.” 

“Or if you made her buy a ticket at the door.”

“Yeah,” David laughs stiffly, his eyes going wide, “I don’t want to think about that.”

**

On Sunday, with the opening just over a week away, David leaves Patrick in the morning with a kiss on the temple and announces that he’s off to Twyla’s. She agreed to being his muse for one final piece for the exhibit, and David set aside a ticket for her in thanks. 

Patrick decides a visit to his parents is long overdue, so he makes three quick drinks downstairs before driving over.

The front door swings open to reveal his mother before he can even get a finger to the doorbell.

“Hi, sweetie! What’s all this?”

Patrick kisses her cheek and shuffles past. “Breakfast,” he quips, raising the cardboard tray. “Dad home?”

“He’s just doing the crossword in the kitchen,” his mother replies, shutting the door. “Go on through, I just have to throw the laundry in the dryer.”

Sure enough, Patrick finds his father hovering over the Sunday paper with a pen in one hand, his glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose.

“Didn’t I tell you to use a pencil with that?”

He cranes his head around to look at Patrick, setting down the paper. “What can I say? I like to live dangerously.”

Patrick smiles at the familiar humor and plucks a cup from the tray, passing it to his father.

“Where’s David today?” His mother breezes into the kitchen with a stack of dish towels. She sets them on the island and accepts the tea Patrick passes to her.

“He’s finalizing a piece for the show next week at Twyla’s, so.” He falls into a barstool. “You’re stuck with me for today.”

“Well I can’t complain about being stuck with my sweet boy.” His mother’s hand comes over to cover his own. Patrick twists his own around to give hers a light squeeze before letting go.

“David must be excited about the opening,” his father says as he removes his glasses. “You’ll have to send us the information so we come. If that’s alright by David, that is.”

Patrick smiles around his cup. “I think he’d love that. Honestly, I think he’s just ready for all the stress to be over with. He hasn’t shown his own work in a gallery...maybe ever? I’m really not sure.” He ignores his parents’ curious gazes, suddenly very interested in his thumbnail. “He was up really late the other night working on one of his pieces. I’m personally ready for him to adapt back to a semi-normal sleep schedule.” 

“He’s clearly taking it seriously,” his father replies, and Patrick dips his head down a little further. “Are you alright, son?”

He sniffs. “Yeah.”

Then he goes silent, focusing on a darkened piece of marble on the island countertop. He knocks the underside of his wrist rhythmically against the cool surface almost absently. His vision begins to obscure as tears pool in his eyes and continues to stare ahead, unblinking, until a hand rests square between his shoulder blades.

“Sweetheart?” His mother’s voice breaks through his trance.

He swears and rubs at his nose, trying to compose himself, but her hand still remains glued to his back. “Sorry, I—sorry.” 

“Did something happen, Patrick?”

“No,” he rushes to say. “Of course not! David’s leaving soon and we don’t know what happens next.”

Silence hangs in the air, his parents’ gazes urging him to continue, so he does.

“We do to an extent, but David doesn’t know where he’s going and I’m not sure how often we’ll see each other. I can’t just leave the café for Stevie to run while I visit him, and he can’t always come to me. That wouldn’t be fair.” Patrick lets out a shaky sigh, his head falling into his hands. “And I can’t ask him to stay. That’s not fair, either.”

His father leans in close. “Has David said anything about what he wants to do?”

“No.” Patrick sighs again, brushing away a tear. The lump in his throat feels like it’s growing exponentially and if it doesn’t stop soon, he might actually choke. “I’ve already told him that I would wait for him and that I’d do whatever it takes to be with him and I—I can’t lose him.”

Another quiet moment passes over them, and Patrick just sits there picking at his cuticles. His mother, whose hand is still pressed firmly against his back, rubs her thumb back and forth in short, soothing arcs.

Patrick has never once taken his parents’ love for granted, and he’s grateful for it now more than ever.

“He’s it for you, isn’t he?” It’s his father who says it, and Patrick looks up at him.

“Yeah,” he breathes, feeling his chest loosen. “Maybe it’s all happening a little fast, but I’m just so completely sure. I’m...I’m in love with him.”

On his right, his mother gasps a little “oh.” She pulls Patrick in, kissing the top of his head and, in her most soothing voice, whispers, “Tell him, honey. Please.”

He lets himself smile a small, sure thing and looks between the two of them. “Oh, I already have. I really thought I scared him at first.”

That gets all three of them to laugh, and then Patrick’s swiping at his eyes again.

“I told him a while ago,” he clarifies, “and I’ve never been so sure about anything in my whole life.”

“Patrick.” His mother pulls his attention, and suddenly he feels like a little kid again getting words of reassurance from her that he needs most. 

Like that time when he was nine and kept striking whenever he was up at bat during a game. He threw his helmet to the ground and slumped behind a tree after the last inning until she found him. She pushed the curls back from his forehead, wiped the tears from his eyes and assured him that everyone has bad days, promising ice cream on the way home.

He wishes it were that simple.

“He’s good,” she begins, her voice thick. “And I think you’ve shown him that. If David’s really the one — and I know he is — then everything will work out just as it needs to. But sometimes you need to give the universe a little push.”

Patrick smiles, relieved that he has their unwavering support. “You two have led by example.”

“Just communicate,” his father adds. “Be honest with yourself and with David, and he will be right there with you.”

“I’ll certainly try,” he whispers, finally feeling more at peace with everything.

“And Patrick? Whatever you decide, we’ll be right there with you.”

If David is it for him, then Patrick will do whatever it takes.

**

“I’m done! I dropped off everything at the gallery this afternoon so now all I have to do is worry about an outfit for Friday night.” David falls dramatically into the empty spot on the couch next to Stevie, accepting a very full glass of wine. He lets out a heaving sigh.

“This calls for a toast.” Patrick raises his glass toward them both, all three meeting with a clear clink in the middle.

“You have three days. Why are you so worried about your outfit?” Stevie asks.

“Because unlike most people, I don’t just jump out of bed in the morning and put on the first thing I touch. This,” he gestures to himself, “takes meticulous planning. Especially for something like this.”

Stevie scoffs. “I don’t jump out of bed.”

“I think he’s referring to me,” Patrick supplies, taking a drink. “He’s gotten testy with how I naturally wake up at seven every morning and start my day. Apparently it’s something insane people do.”

David turns to him. “Excuse me, I do not get testy and I have never said that.”

Patrick nods. “Right.”

“So, since you inadvertently just insulted both of our wardrobes,” Stevie interjects, tucking her legs beneath herself, “does that mean I can’t wear my special occasion flannel to the opening?”

“And what about me?” Patrick begins with a teasing undertone. “If what I have is too casual, my old prom tux might still fit.”

“Cute,” David mutters, staring him down. “You think you’re cute.”

Patrick just digs his teeth into his lower lip to hold back a smile.

“You can just wear one of your little jackets,” David concludes. “Don’t overthink it.”

“That coming from you,” Stevie mutters under her breath.

“Do you have something other than...this?” He plucks a piece of invisible lint off her sleeve.

“I mean, sure. I have a few dresses.”

“Okay, well I’ll need to see our options. What about shoes?”

“I own a few pairs of heels, David.” Stevie pauses. “Are you deflecting?”

“No!” David clips, but his face says otherwise. “No. I’m not deflecting anything.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being nervous, David,” Patrick soothes. “It’s normal.”

“Well I’m not,” he states, and Patrick’s eyes widen. “I’m just trying to...help you guys out.”

Stevie whispers “Deflecting” into her wine glass, earning her a sharp scowl from David.

“Listen! It’s just a general consensus that everyone looks their best at an event such as this one.”

She stretches back against the cushions. “Is it, though?”

“Yes!” He waves a hand around, his body moving enough that his wine nearly spills over the lip of his glass. Patrick holds his breath for the preservation of his sofa. “You wouldn’t go to a prestigious museum in jeans and a t-shirt, would you? Actually, don’t answer that.”

“Hey, do you think you just need a little distraction?” Patrick moves from his chair to balance on the arm of the sofa. He sets a careful hand on David’s knee.

David eyes Patrick slowly. “Maybe later,” he whispers, low.

“Gross. I’m sitting right here, guys. I don’t need to watch you two eye fuck each other.”

“I will actually pay you to leave,” David says in retaliation, but Stevie shakes her head.

“No, I’m good here.” She grabs the remote and settles back again, flicking through the channels until she finds a movie. “Ooh, Jurassic Park!” 

Patrick nudges David over, sliding off the arm and onto the sofa properly beside him. When David lets out an indignant grumble, Patrick taps him with his elbow. “Laura Dern is in it.”

“Fine,” he sighs. “But only because she’s one of the most fabulous women alive.”

**

By the time Friday rolls around, Patrick is completely attuned to David’s releases. 

On Thursday, he was determined on fully cleaning the apartment from top to toe, reorganizing his entire wardrobe, and giving Patrick a rigorous runthrough of his own personalized skincare regimen: “You should use this moisturizer twice a day, and if you start using a hydrating serum, be diligent with it. Especially in the winter. Toner is important, too, it gets off any excess cleanser you’ve used. Here — I bought you this lavender one.”

It takes anywhere between thirty minutes to an hour for caffeine to fully hit your system, but Patrick assumes his anxiety just kicks it up tenfold. 

So when he wakes up well before David Friday morning, Patrick presses a kiss to his sleeping boyfriend’s cheekbone before slipping far beneath the covers. He pushes David’s shirt up enough so he can kiss at his sleep-warmed skin, the soft hair above his waistband tickling his nose. 

David stirs beneath him, grumbling low as fingers find their way through Patrick’s hair.

“What’re you doin’?” He slurs.

Patrick lifts his head, the covers pooling at his shoulders, David’s hand falling onto the mattress. He gives him a little smirk and digs his fingers into his sides. “Saying good morning.”

“Well that is a very nice way to wake up,” David replies, smiling sleepily. He settles back against the pillows with a contented sigh.

He doesn’t move back down. Instead, Patrick finds himself staring at David, his face lax and beautiful. At this moment he’s completely unaware of the hours counting down to the opening tonight. There’s no panic, no jitters, and it’s probably thanks to the fact that David’s still half asleep and won’t be entirely coherent until after ten.

Patrick crawls back up until he’s hovering over him, tucking a loop of hair back.

David blinks his eyes open. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Patrick whispers back before dipping down and kissing him soundly.

David’s chin tilts up to center their lips, smiling into the kiss. In one swift motion, Patrick’s on his back, laughing as David deepens the kiss and rolls against him.

“Hey,” Patrick begins, somewhat strained, “today’s about you.”

“While I would normally never argue with that, I’m feeling a little tense. So...let me do this?”

“Well, don’t hold out on me.”

David’s eyes glean. “I would never.”

Satisfied some time later, they shower and Patrick gets himself ready for the day.

“Wha-where are you going?” David stands in the kitchen, a plate of toast in one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other. “You’re not working today, are you?”

“I can’t just close the café without notice, David,” Patrick reasons. “Keeping regular hours is important for customer loyalty.”

“Okay, well can’t you just say there was a water main break or a light went out or something?”

“I really can’t.” Patrick laces his oxfords and gets to his feet. “I’m right downstairs if you need anything today. Just try and relax until tonight. Find something to distract yourself with.”

David pouts a bit. “I have, but he’s going to work.”

“Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be. And don’t—I realize that’s a euphemism.”

“Okay.” David bites back a laugh. “Couldn’t I just help out downstairs for a few hours? I won’t even stay the whole day! Please, Patrick? Like you said, I need to distract myself today, and I already helped Stevie pick out a dress to wear tonight so that’s off the table.”

Very much against his better judgement, Patrick sighs and agrees, telling David he can work the lunch hours, just until two if he promises to have an actual breakfast over at the diner to kill some time.

“I don’t want to see you downstairs before noon,” he warns David mildly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Try and enjoy your morning.”

David waves a book around. “I’m going to finish this over the biggest plate of waffles I can get my hands on.”

“Well, enjoy it. You deserve them.” 

With that, Patrick pushes past David for the door, throwing a wink in his direction on the way out.

**

Surprisingly enough, David breezes into the Brew with ten minutes to spare. He makes a joke of it himself, telling Patrick he’ll take his time washing his hands and putting on his apron.  
“I could only walk around the block so many times, Patrick,” he explains, making his way around the counter. He drops his bag off in the back before jumping on the line to help.

Patrick watches David prep an espresso shot, his hip pressed into the counter as he observes him. “You’ve gotten good at this stuff.”

David huffs. “Well, I learned from the best.”

It makes Patrick’s heart pound a little in his chest, stupidly enough. He wills it to calm down. He waits until David’s finished and has called out the order to the man waiting to pull him in by the waist.

“Do you know how proud I am of you?” He whispers into the space between them.

David’s face goes soft. “I mean it’s not that big of an achievement,” he says, brows pinched together as he looks away. “There are more exciting things.”

“No, not to me. I’m so proud of you, David. Stop making this out to be smaller than it is and just be proud of yourself, too.”

He dips his chin to his chest. “You’re too good to me.”

“I can’t help it,” he reasons. “I love you.”

David loops his arms around Patrick’s neck with a hitched breath. He’s just about to kiss him when the bell above the door rings out causing them to snap apart.

“David?” Standing there, a hand pressed against the door, bag dangling from her opposite arm is a woman with wavy honey-blonde hair and wide eyes. She’s searching them both for something, but her expression is eerily similar to David’s. Patrick lets his hands fall to his sides.

“Alexis, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Um, what the fuck are you doing here?”

Oh.

That’s Alexis. Patrick’s never seen a picture of her, and aside from that one FaceTime call on David’s birthday, if that even counts (it doesn’t), he’s never spoken to her.

“Will you just answer my question?” David’s fully stepped away from Patrick now, and it’s taking everything in his power not to reach out and comfort him. He keeps a healthy distance between them despite his heart’s protests. “How did you even find me?”

“Your Amazon account,” she explains, shrugging nonchalantly. She steps further into the café, the door swinging closed behind her. “I needed to use your Prime for something—”

“That’s not okay.”

“Shush, David. It’s not like you’ve changed your password in the last three years. It was easy to get into. Anyway, I knew you had an extensive collection of movies on your account and I wasn’t about to make one for myself and pay all that money.”

“Alexis you have a Prime account. You don’t have to pay for anything you want to watch!” David looks like he’s about to fly off the handle at any moment, but he has a white-knuckled grip on the counter.

“Whatever! Moral of the story is that you need stronger passwords.” She gives him a pout, tilting her head to the side.

“Okay, no! Alexis, why are you here?”

“Because I was concerned! Something was off with you in L.A. I could just tell. And aside from Mom’s premiere and your birthday, I’ve barely heard from you in months and now all of a sudden you’re getting your packages sent to some address in this teeny-weeny little town. And now you’re, like...wearing an apron? It’s not the cutest look, but then again I’ve seen you in that Alanis Morissette costume.” Alexis leans into the counter. “Why aren’t you in New York, David?”

David blanches. He whips around, looking to Patrick for help, but all he gets in return is a nod toward his sister. “We should probably talk,” he finally says, and Patrick nods again.

“I’ll leave you to it. I have some stuff to do in the back.” He hitches a thumb over his shoulder, backing away to give them privacy.

Patrick picks the clipboard off the nail it hangs on and starts counting out the inventory, albeit he’s completely distracted.

A chair squeaks against the tile out on the main floor, and Patrick can already hear David’s huff.

“So what’s going on with you?” Alexis asks. “Why can’t you go home?”

“New York was barely home to me for all the years I’ve lived there.”

It’s Alexis’s turn to huff. “Ugh, can you not beat around the bush here?”

“I just can’t,” comes David’s defeated reply, and Patrick’s heart breaks in two.

“Okay, that’s not a valid reason. Mom and Dad haven’t heard from you since we were all in L.A.—”

“—Which is different how, exactly?”

“And then last week Dad mentioned you sold your gallery. What’s that about?”

“It was time.”

“It was time? Okay, sure. And I dyed my hair red in eighth grade because it was ‘just time.’”

“I fucking sold the gallery, Alexis!”

Patrick freezes with one hand eye-level where he’s rearranging bags of coffee on the wire wrack. He turns an ear toward the open archway, secretly very happy the shop is empty at this hour.

“But why?” Alexis sounds genuinely concerned. Of course she is. David’s her brother, and even though the two of them may be at each other’s throats more often than not, they’re siblings.

“Because I was tired,” David explains with equal heaviness in his voice. “It completely drained everything from me, so I sold it and got the hell out of there. Mom and Dad weren’t exactly thrilled about it when I told them, like, five months after doing it.”

“Woah. Five months?”

“I needed to clear my head for a bit.”

“Yeah, David! For five months! You’re lucky I didn’t go to New York two weeks ago! I was going to, but I wound up getting swept off to London for a press event.”

David groans heavily and a little brutally. “See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you. You’re always on the move without telling anyone. Can we just skip to the part where you attempt to argue with me on this? You can’t tell me that running away is bad when you used to do it all the time.”

“It was barely running away, David. I was usually fine. So what if I was locked in an embassy? I know how to flirt my way out of a bad situation.”

Patrick furrows his brows at that, fingers laced into the gaps of the rack in front of him. David’s told him about his sister’s adventures, but hearing it from her directly is a little more wild.

“That’s comforting,” David chides. “And all those times I had to save your ass?”

“I was fine!”

“Were you?”

“Usually!”

“So all that stock of old colored contacts and passports I had made up with a go-bag readily stashed in the back of my closet was unnecessary?”

There’s a very long pause, long enough that Patrick nearly peeks his head out, curious, but a small voice pipes up. “Why didn’t you come talk to me?” Alexis’s sounds more remorseful than anything.

“It’s not like you and I talk about these kinds of things. Our feelings.” 

“I still don’t get it though, David. Can’t you go back to New York? There are other things to do there. You were thriving!”

“Being depressed is not thriving, Alexis. I removed myself from the equation.” There’s a beat before David adds, “Besides...I’m not entirely sure I’m ready to leave.”

Patrick’s heart skips a beat, but he remains attentive.

“Does it have to do anything with that cutie little barista you were smooching when I walked in?”

And even though he’s alone, Patrick blushes furiously.

“It has everything to do with him,” David replies, his voice raw and thick like he’s choked up. “His name is Patrick. He owns this coffee shop. Alexis, I...I’m better because of him. I’m happy.”

Patrick inches closer to the doorway, a hand over his mouth to hide his smile from no one but himself. He could swoon right now, spin around like some sort of Don Bluth character, but David’s voice stops him.

“And when have I ever said that genuinely?”

“David…”

“Everyone in this town has been nothing but good to me. They welcomed me. Patrick welcomed me, from the moment I stepped through that door. No one has ever done that to me with such generosity. I mean, he made fun of what I ordered and I thought he was a bit too sure of himself at first, but I just kept coming back.” There’s another pause, presumably so David can collect his thoughts, and Patrick finds himself with his back pressed up against the wall as he listens. “I started painting again,” he hears David announce with pride. “And Patrick encouraged me to start selling my work here. He was more excited than I was at first.” David laughs a little, and Alexis does, too.

“Oh my god, David. You love him,” Patrick hears Alexis say. “Don’t make that face, I know my brother.”

After a moment, David finally answers. “Yeah. I really do.”

He wants to get out there, he really does, but David and Alexis need their privacy. Patrick twists around to lean his forehead against the wall and lets out a silent laugh, cheeks aching with how hard he’s smiling.

“Then don’t lose him,” Alexis says softly. “Patrick seems like a really sweet guy, David. Your dating history is...not that great.”

“Okay,” David scoffs, “that coming from you.” 

“No, I mean it! I think we finally found the right guys for us. I don’t know anything about Patrick yet, but he’s just precious and I cannot wait to! I can tell he’s good, and if he makes my brother happy, then how can he not be? He’s put together, he’s got a great butt. Have you seen him in those jeans?” 

Patrick’s face is hot the moment the words leave Alexis’s mouth. That’s not something he’s used to, outside of David’s generous complimenting. He’s not exactly sure how to feel about his boyfriend’s sister checking out his ass.

“And,” she continues, pushing the thoughts from his mind, “you’ve never once said you loved someone you’ve dated, so. You’re happy. Let yourself be.” 

Patrick deems that a safe enough moment to sneak out of the stockroom and back out behind the counter. He smiles privately as he busies himself with making two cups of tea, catching David’s eye over Alexis’s shoulder. He looks like he might have been tearing up as he poured his heart out to her.

He peels away at a warning label that’s losing its tack on the side of the espresso machine while the teas steep.

Alexis spins around to look at him. She doesn’t say anything, only smiles as she hangs over the back of her chair, so Patrick gives her a little wave in return.

“He’s cute!” She says to David, swiveling back to sit properly.

David hums.

“So, you really want to stay here?”

Patrick can almost feel David’s gaze on him as he replies. “Yeah. I’m not finished with this place yet.”

His already tricky heart nearly leaps out of his chest with excitement when he hears it. David’s going to stay, for however long that might be, but he’s staying in Mistmill. Selfishly, Patrick hopes it just might be forever. Or for as long as Patrick does.

“Okay.”

“What are you doing?” David asks her, and looking over, Alexis is tapping away at her phone.

“I’m changing my flight.” David’s face screws up, clearly curious, and after a few minutes Alexis sets her phone face-down on the table. “If you love this place so much, show me around. I want to see what makes you so happy.”

David is beaming as Patrick walks over with the mugs and two slices of banana bread. “I figured tea would be necessary,” he says carefully.

“That’s so sweet!” Alexis places a hand on his arm. “And I’d love to get to know you too, Patrick.” He doesn’t really know what to do when she taps him on the nose next, so he smiles.

“I’ll just—”

“Wait!” David stops him. “Stay? For a second?”

I’ll stay forever, he wants to say, but he takes a seat beside David and allows himself to be pulled into his side.

It’s familiar and still strangely comfortable even as yet another well-dressed Rose sits across from them, a stranger with her bright and bubbly personality.

“So Patrick, you need to tell me about this place. It’s super cute!”

“I’m happy to answer any of your questions, Alexis.”

“What I want to know first is how you won my brother over. I mean, he’s notoriously stubborn.”

“Oh, I know,” Patrick chides, ignoring David’s half glare. “I honestly think it was all the free coffee and pastries.”

She taps the table with a finger. “You won him over by perfecting his coffee order,” she pouts, “that’s so sweet!”

“He didn’t win me over,” David cuts in. His hand travels up Patrick’s leg. “I’d say it was a slow, gradual thing between both of us.”

“I thought it was because your living accommodations didn’t come with a coffee pot or espresso machine?”

David knocks his shoulder in response.

“Alright, what is there to do around here?” Alexis flexes her fingers onto the table. “I wanna see everything.”

“We’re gonna have to push that off until tomorrow,” David explains, timidly wringing his hands together. Patrick slips a hand beneath the hem of his shirt to rub comfortingly at his back. “There’s actually an event tonight.”

Alexis straightens up a little taller. “What kind of event?”

“An exhibit opening,” he replies, framing it as a question. “It’s for a bunch of local artists… Some of my work is actually being featured.”

“David!” She slaps him hard enough on the arm that he actually flinches away. “That’s so exciting! What time does it start?”

He shakes his head like he’s startled. “You’re coming?”

“Of course I am! You never do this. I wouldn’t miss it even if I was asked to model for Teen Vogue again.”

“That happened once and you were a background model,” David says pointedly. Patrick bites back a laugh.

“That’s what they let you think.” She taps the table. 

“You’re also, like, thirty.”

“Stop it. But seriously, of course I’m coming tonight. Who else is going?”

“Um, our friend Stevie, Patrick’s parents are stopping by, and Twyla, the girl who runs the bakery around the corner because she did some modeling for me.”

“What, like nude modeling?”

“What? No! And really, it’s not that big a deal.”

“I think it is, actually,” Patrick says, moving his hand further up David’s spine. “You’ve worked really hard, so you’re allowed to make a big deal out of tonight.”

David’s lips give way to a smile and he knocks against Patrick’s shoulder once more.

“Listen,” Patrick kisses his temple, getting to his feet, “why don’t you show Alexis around town until I close up here and then I’ll meet you back at mine? Keep your mind off tonight.”

“Okay.”

Patrick watches them leave a few minutes later, Alexis hanging off her brother’s arm as he asks her where she’s staying. David throws one last look over his shoulder through the window, the relief in his eyes saying it all.

**

Alexis’s insistence on David helping her find something appropriate to wear tonight leaves Patrick to get ready alone. He was hoping to arrive with David and maybe even pepper his face with kisses outside the gallery when he gets too jittery.

Instead he finds himself idling in the echoing front halls of the museum with Stevie — looking lovely if not a little out of sorts in a floral dress — and Twyla, a glass of champagne in his hand.

“Oh, there he is!” Stevie says excitedly over her own glass, tipping it toward the center of the exhibit floor.

The three of them make haste down toward him, weaving in and out of other patrons. Stevie nearly crashes into Patrick’s back, swearing, when he stops short. 

Alexis stands beside David in a teal velvet dress, standing on her toes and waving when she catches Patrick’s eye. But that’s not what stops him.

It’s David, standing in by far the fanciest thing Patrick’s seen him wear: a well-fitted suit and tie looking absolutely breathtaking. He’s beyond words, and he needs to remind himself to breathe as he steps closer to David.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” Patrick leans up to kiss David’s cheek, minding his glass. David moves to hug Stevie and Twyla, introducing them to Alexis who immediately flocks to them.

“So where’s your stuff?” Stevie asks, bouncing on her toes excitedly.

“Over here.” David ushers the five of them to an open bank of walls where his work hangs.

There’s even a little placard with Artist: David Rose, OT, CA mounted on the wall with a little biography. Patrick’s chest swells with pride for the man now pressing into his side.

“What do you think?” David asks low, and Patrick turns toward him.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers back. He presses his lips to the bottom of his jaw and turns back to the monochromatic paintings.

The night goes on, allowing David to really sink into his element as he strikes up conversations with the other artists and patrons. He manages to sell a few pieces, too, which have to stay up until the end of the exhibit on Sunday night. 

Patrick’s parents arrive an hour after the rest of them, his mother brandishing a big bouquet of flowers for David that he doesn’t quite know what to do with. So he hugs them both, thanking them for coming, and Alexis offers to put it with their things after introducing herself. 

“You know, he really loves you.” Alexis is suddenly at Patrick’s elbow as he studies a large acrylic painting. She links their arms together, pulling him in close. “David wouldn’t stop talking about you this afternoon.”

“Well, I really love him too,” he beams, Alexis matching him to the point where her nose crinkles.

“Hey. Not that I don’t already know this, but promise me you’ll treat him well.”

“I’ll always respect him, Alexis,” Patrick swears, letting his gaze travel over to where David is speaking to a middle-aged couple with Stevie hovering by his side. His hands are painting the contours of the room with whatever he’s saying to them. “David is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

One thing Patrick has realized in the very short time he’s known Alexis is that the entire Rose family, not just David, is incredibly expressive. Her face morphs into something soft and incandescent, a result of some kind of sibling bond he’ll never fully understand himself. Alexis, for all her wild stories, is just as kind and good as her brother, and she’s just looking out for him.

Patrick appreciates that.

“Good. Now come on.” She pulls him by the hand toward David, interrupting his conversation with the small group. “Hate to butt in, but as David’s life coach and acting publicist, we need to commemorate tonight with a picture. It’ll take, like, a minute tops.” 

From there, Alexis shoves her scowling brother — “Publicist?” — and a slightly exasperated Patrick into good lighting.

“David, quit doing that with your eyebrows.”

“Just take the picture, Alexis!” David snaps at her. He looks at Patrick forlorn. “Sorry about her.”

“Don’t be.” Patrick squeezes his hip. “I like her.” 

David scoffs, but the look on his face is enough to let Patrick know he’s touched.

**

He attends the exhibit every night from open to close with Alexis, cheering David on silently from the sidelines. By the end of the weekend, every last piece he’s displayed has been sold, suitably stunning David in the process.

When the crowds have fizzled out quite a bit on that last night and only a few of the other artists, their families and some curators remain, Patrick watches as the custodians begin sweeping the floors and clearing the snack tables.

David is off speaking to an elegant-looking woman with grey curls and red lips. They’re in the middle of a conversation, one that Patrick feels he shouldn’t interrupt, so he busies himself with texting Stevie until David’s voice echoes out.

“Patrick! Come here for a second.” 

He pockets his phone and strides over next to David.

“Marjorie, this is my boyfriend, Patrick. Patrick, this is Marjorie MacMillen. She’s the head curator here.”

He shakes her hand, “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she smiles. “I was just thanking David for his contribution to the exhibit. It helps to have someone who knows what they’re talking about on a professional level. You know, David, I had a lot of patrons compliment you these last few days.”

Patrick nudges him. “See?”

“R-really?”

Marjorie hums. “I’m serious. Not everyone sells out their first exhibit. It’s impressive, and you should be proud.” She sips from her champagne flute before continuing. “You’ve seriously never displayed any of your work in a gallery before?”

“I haven’t,” David confirms, “I’ve run galleries and hosted events, but I’ve never done...this.”

“Well, I think you should look into doing it more often. You’re talented, David Rose, and you should do something incredible with that talent.” 

David’s cheeks flush and really, it’s adorable.

Marjorie fishes around for something in her pocket for a moment before procuring a business card and passing it over to David. “The museum’s been looking for a director of events and assistant curator for a while now, and you hit all the marks. It might be a step down from those grandiose parties and repertoire you were telling me about earlier, but I think you’d be perfect. It’s not one of New York’s private galleries, but I think this would be a great opportunity for you.”

David is positively gawking at her, and Patrick is sure his own eyes are wide. He’s completely silent beside him for a moment until Patrick whispers his name.

He clears his throat. “I just have one question. I won’t have to oversee any paint-and-sips, will I?” The sour face he makes is enough to get Patrick and Marjorie laughing.

“Oh, god no!” She waves a hand. “We leave that to the ceramics place in town. You may occasionally have to give a tour to some high schoolers, but we can always stick someone else in there. Listen, you have my card. Take a few days to mull it over. If you’re up for it, we can schedule something and talk about it formally. How does that sound?”

David blinks hard, then nods profusely as he reaches out to shake her hand again. “I’ll absolutely be in touch.”

“Good!” Marjorie beams. “Hey, do you have a second before you two head out? I hate to keep you from your lovely partner here, but I have one other director I want to introduce you to.” 

When David looks at him for some kind of permission that he definitely does not need, Patrick gives his hand a squeeze. “I’ll get your stuff and meet you out front, okay?”

“Mh-hm. I’ll be quick.”

“You better.” Patrick leans in close to his ear. “I have plans for you and this suit.”

David keeps his smirk at bay. “What a coincidence. So do I.”

He leaves Patrick with a sweet kiss, following Marjorie over to the far corner of the room.

**

“Why did you insist on driving?”

“I told you, I have something to show you.”

“Okay. Does it have anything to do with the fact that you blew off your sister for dinner tonight?”

“Possibly.” David flicks the directional upward. “And also no. It’s too late for that, and she’s probably already fifteen minutes into a facemask at this point watching Gilmore Girls or something. And unless she fucked up her ticket for the umpteenth time in her life, Alexis’s flight leaves at noon tomorrow so I’m sure she’s trying to shove everything back into her suitcase as we speak.”

They keep driving along, Patrick searching David for some sort of hint, but his sleuthing is obstructed when a strip of fabric is shoved in his face.

“What is this?”

“Blindfold.”

Patrick’s eyebrows shoot up. “I’m sorry?” He asks, voice pitched. “Are we—“

“No, we’re not doing anything like that. Just put it on.”

“Why?”

“Stop asking questions and put it on. Please?”

With a sigh, he obliges, tying the fabric at the back of his head.

“Can you see anything?” David asks.

“I don’t think so, but you better hurry up and get to wherever it is you’re taking me soon before I get carsick.”

David makes a noise in disgust to his left as they turn onto a steep road. “I’ll crack a window.”

Soon enough, they’re pulling to a stop, tires crunching on gravel beneath them.

David’s already unbuckled and running around to the trunk of the car, from what Patrick can hear. “I don’t love being blindfolded,” he yells to him, tapping around for the door handle 

There’s a thunk, and a cool early autumn breeze greets him as David opens the door. “I’ve got you,” he reassures, taking his hand. “Come on.”

He guides them down a set of rickety steps and Patrick isn’t entirely comfortable until they hit softer terrain.

“I should have known you were actually the axe murderer in this relationship,” he jokes mildly as David continues to move him along, his hands braced on Patrick’s shoulders.

“Unfortunately for you, I don’t own an axe. But I have heard that a sack of coffee beans might work in a pinch.”

Patrick laughs at the old banter, sending him back to when they first met all those months ago.

“Okay, we’re here. Take it off.”

“What did you do?”

“Just take the blindfold off, Patrick.”

He does, with minor struggle, letting the fabric fall limp in his hand as he looks out at his surroundings.

“David.” Patrick swivels his head to him. “What are we doing here?”

“I couldn’t make a clean break with this place,” he says with an easy smile as Patrick takes in the dock they stand on. The Adirondack chairs are empty and waiting for them at the edge, and it’s then that he notices the small cooler David’s carrying. He lifts it higher. “I figured a drink would be nice. To cap off the weekend?”

Patrick laughs. “Is this trespassing?”

“Barely?” David sets the cooler down on one of the chairs and sits with his feet hanging over the edge of the dock. He gestures for Patrick to follow. “I mean I lived here for almost six months, so they know I’m harmless.”

“I don’t know, David. The Gellers have never seen you open a bag of tortilla chips before.”

He scowls. “I used a knife one time, and that’s only because I couldn’t find the scissors.”

“Whatever you say. What if we get caught?”

“We’re not.”

“We’re not?”

“Nope. They aren’t home,” he replies and points up toward the darkened house. “The lights are off.”

“David—”

“Will you please relax?” He tugs gently at the lapels of Patrick’s jacket. “It’ll be just like old times. See?” David pulls two plastic cups and a bottle of whiskey from the cooler, barely chilled. Wearing his most persuasive smile, he pours two fingers for each of them and holds one out for Patrick to take.

And really, how can he say no to that face?

They sit there in comfortable silence for a long time, pressed into each other’s sides as the water laps at the poles beneath them. It feels so similar to the night Patrick first told David he loved him. It feels so similar to all the late nights they’ve shared together at the end of this dock and in the house looming above them

“I hope you know how proud I am, David.” Patrick hooks his chin over his shoulder, looping an arm around his waist to hold him impossibly close. “You turned a lot of heads this weekend. You should be proud of yourself, too.”

“I am.” He knocks his head against Patrick’s gently. “I wouldn’t have been able to do it if you weren’t so encouraging all those months ago.”

“Or if Stevie hadn’t accosted you with that flyer in the first place.”

David hums. “Yeah, that, too.” He angles his head to look down at Patrick gratefully. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For being so good to me. For being there every night this weekend.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, David, you know that.”

“That I do.” David takes a deep cleansing breath and they fall silent again.

Patrick’s eyes drift closed. He’s nowhere near sleep but he’s content, swilling the whiskey around in his glass.

“You know, since I’m staying...it wouldn’t be fair for me to live with you.”

“You’re always welcome to stay with me. You know that. But I understand.” 

“And I appreciate that.”

Patrick opens his eyes, sitting upright. “I’ll help you look for a place whenever you’re ready, okay?”

David smiles at him. “I’d really like that,” he says, nuzzling into his neck.

It tickles, the way David’s lips drag featherlight across Patrick’s skin. It activates the goosebumps on the back of his neck and shoulders but he leans into it, not entirely ready to lose contact with this man just yet.

“What if I bought this place?”

Patrick can’t help it, he lets out a snort. “Sure, David.”

David is quiet beside him. He isn’t making any jokes to counter Patrick, he’s just silent. And when he looks over, his eyes are big and sincere.

“W-what? You’re not serious about that, are you?”

“They gave me the first offer when I dropped off my key a few weeks ago,” he explains sheepishly.

Patrick shifts to focus on David fully, setting his cup down on the wood just by his knee.

“They’re looking to move to Florida permanently and want to do so before the holidays, so they need a buyer to act fast,” David explains. “And I can actually afford it. It’s cheaper than both my apartment and the gallery in New York combined.” 

“David…”

“They weren’t looking for a lot, and I do have some money saved from old ventures.” He offers up a little smile. “I think I’m gonna go through with it.”

Patrick has to beat down the unnamed emotion rising up in his chest (excitement, maybe?) to actually be able to say something. “Are you completely sure? David, there are other houses. Smaller ones.”

“Yeah, but this place means a lot to me.” In emphasis, he turns to gaze up at it dreamily. “It means a lot to us.” 

David turns back to him and maybe it’s just the light of the moon, but his eyes are shining. He’s gorgeous in this silver light; he always has been. When Patrick wakes up in the middle of the night to David in his arms, or when he finds him curled up in that chair in the bedroom of this very house. And especially here and now, starting this new chapter for the both of them.

“The house isn’t that big, so there’s no need to worry about me getting lonely,” he jokes, pulling a light huff from Patrick. “And eventually, down the line...if you’d like to maybe move in here with me?”

A million questions are flying around Patrick’s head at this very moment that he can’t quite grasp. But he says yes wordlessly, hoping it gets through as he kisses David. He pours every ounce of himself into it, holding the love of his life in his arms, everything that’s brought them to this very moment flashing before him. 

Because David is staying. And he’s asking Patrick, in due time, to stay with him.

What did he ever do to deserve David Rose?

Patrick pulls away just enough so their foreheads still touch, stroking a finger along the dimple on his left cheek.

“I take it you’re happy?” David whispers, and Patrick nods against him.

“Welcome home, David.” It comes out as a whisper, but his breath catches, and so does David’s.

Patrick pulls away fully now, sniffing and looking out at the water, then back to David. “Skinny dip for old time’s sake?”

To his delight, David is already unbuttoning his suit jacket. “Anything for you, honey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for reading!
> 
> Thank you again to fishy spots for being my beta through this story, for the Nutella on top of frappes idea (that’s honestly way too sweet), and for getting me out of my slumps.
> 
> A special thanks to patrickbrewsky over on tumblr for letting me steal that X-Files quote from one of her gif sets. 
> 
> This universe isn’t over and done with yet, I have one last thing coming your way soon, so keep an eye out! 
> 
> Once again, thank you reading! You can find me @maxbegone on tumblr!

**Author's Note:**

> There's part one! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! You can find me [@maxbegone](maxbegone.tumblr.com) over on tumblr!


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